#halo 5 au x reader | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

the-kr8tor · 4 months

Text

Talking Iron

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 5.4k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW blood, TW death, CW guns, CW injury, CW food mentions, CW vomit mention, CW violence. Cowboy AU, old west AU.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

Navigation

CHAPTER 2 >>> CHAPTER 3

You haven't been this close to him in 5 years. Breath to breath, heart to heart, you watch yourself in his jade eyes like how one sees themselves for the first time.

“I've finally found you.” Eyes shining, smile brighter than the sun bearing down, you grasp his face tenderly—as if your own eyes deceive you, as if you're dreaming. “Hobie?” You call for him when he doesn't move an inch above you.

Hobie's green eyes just stare at you, or through you. Mouth agape, breath stuck in his throat. To get his attention, you place your thumb softly over the corner of his eye, rubbing gently like you always did when he needed to wake up from a daydream.

For a split second, he leans in your touch. But as fast as he leaned in, he flinched away just as quick. Hobie scrambles away on the dusty ground like you've burned him. You might as well have when he felt how cold the golden band around your middle finger is. Soil dirtying the thick leather he wears, he stands up shakily. With the sun behind him, you have a hard time seeing his face, seeing the face you've longed for. A shadow cast around him, a halo of light around his head, the shadow blanketing him, as if you're not allowed to bear witness to all his glory.

Instead of ‘I love yous’ or ‘I miss yous’ falling on his lips, harshness flows out of them. “What are you doin' ‘ere?”

Hands bound, you try to sit up but fail. “Looking for you of course!” You say cheerfully, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It is to you, for him, it's the most confusing statement.

“Why?” Hobie's hands clenched into fists. He's not going to hurt you, he'll never hurt you—but he really wants to punch something. Just when he thought the past won't haunt him, just when he pushed the past behind him, you came to him like some miracle.

You almost scoff. “W-why? To see you, just like you wanted me to.” Finally succeeding to sit up, you huff. “Five years of no communication,” you say forlornly, “of course I'd come and see you the moment you sent word.” You smile again, and he looks away. Anywhere, anything else than the curl of your lips.

“Sent word?” He shakes his head. “I've never sent you anythin'” His words would pierce your heart but your excitement and relief triumphs over the feeling.

“A-are you sure?” You blink slowly, reaching up with your bound hands. “Can you help me up, please? I'll show you the letter.”

“Letter?”

“Can you stop asking and just help me up, Hobie? Please, the ground is hot.” With a quick nod, eyes still glancing away from you, he grabs you by the rope around your hands, avoiding touching your own; lifting you up rather quickly. The moment you're back on your feet, he yanks his hand away from you, to which you're too happy to even notice. “It's in my skirt pocket, the right.” You instruct him since you can't reach it with your hands tied. Hobie reaches to your left, hand roaming around your empty pocket, careful not to graze your thigh. “My right, Hobs.” He freezes in place, he hasn't heard that nickname in years. Without another word, he takes his hand back, then he searches for the neatly folded paper. “I've never pegged you to be a law man. Are you gonna turn me over, sheriff?”

Hobie scowls at the title, “not even close.” He sees how much it's been folded, like you've read it a thousand times. Opening the letter, scanning the contents, the pause gives you time to admire him fully. The whole ‘american cowboy’ shtick suits him, you think. You ogle him unabashedly.

Each word has his jaw tightening. It's in his writing, he remembers the exact words that's full of longing and sadness. It's full of the words you expect him to say. Yet, he wasn't the one who sent it. He's sure he didn't, especially that it was written when he was drowning in his amber filled glass. “Where'd you get this?” His eyes flick over to you, your smile faltering for only a second.

“A mail carrier?” You chuckle, “it was delivered to me.”

“I didn't send this to you.”

“Oh.” Your smile crumbles but you fix it back up almost immediately, optimism winning. “Maybe you just forgot? Remember when you forgot to put on a sock that one time and—”

“This isn't some sock, Y/N.”

“You didn't ask for me? Was it forged?” You ask quietly, heart shattering with every question.

Hobie shakes his head, sucking in his teeth, he pockets the letter. Taking the rope that hangs on your bounded hands, he tugs you back to the shop. “C’mon.” Boots thudding on the ground, he's going to do what he's good at—his job.

“W-wait! I haven't seen you in five years and you're seriously taking me to face charges? Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you doing?’” You yank back, heels digging in to stop him.

“Hello, you're not goin’ to jail, I need the ten bucks. You seem fine so ‘m bringin’ you home.” Dragging you inside, the shopkeeper grins and even claps at the sight.

“That is so much worse! Hobie—” You plead, you don't remember ever pleading with him before.

“Good job, Mr…?” The moustachioed man asks, ten dollar bill in hand.

“No one.” Hobie snatches the bill, then immediately dragging you towards the front of the shop. The bells chime as he opens the door, but you're too polite to not say sorry to the man.

“I'm sorry for pointing the gun at you, but you shouldn't have shot at someone who cannot shoot back. It's rude—!” You get yanked outside, the man looks confused at your words.

“Don't apologize to him.” Hobie says, hands placed on your hips, a feeling that isn't foreign to you, but something you missed dearly.

You grin at him, expecting him to say the words you long for. Instead, you get lifted up. Yelping, connected hands flying to his wrists, he places you on his horse. Hitching your hands around the horn of his saddle.

“I think we're good, Hobie, you got his money. Can you untie me now?” You start to get nervous. The brilliant black horse looks over his shoulder, black marbles staring at you, paying you no mind. “Hi, I'm Y/N. It's a pleasure.”

“The horse doesn't talk, lov—” He stops himself before he could complete his sentence. Hobie lifts himself up, sitting behind you, legs next to yours, arms cageing you in while he holds the reins. “Thought you'd know that. Or is it because the horses back in England learned to talk after I left.” You still have no idea why he left, you're waiting for the right time to ask, for now your main concern is why your hands are tied.

“I know horses can't talk.” You roll your eyes, “I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm sure you're close to your horse, correct? You were always fond of animals.”

“His name is Buckeye.” Hobie says, with a slight kick and a click of his tongue, he holds the reins precisely, steering Buckeye towards the train station further out of town.

“Cute!” You exclaim despite the hunger, you're still happy that you found him. Or he was the one who found you. Hobie always has a knack for that it seems, whether you're hiding away or can't be bothered to be perceived by anyone but him, he always finds you. Always. “It's a cute name. Buckeye, fitting name for a horse that's as gorgeous as you, huh?” You lean down just in time for Buckeye to look back at you. He neighs like he understood you. “Yeah, you agree.” You giggle, the dark horse looks like he enjoys the attention.

Hobie is baffled by the whole interaction. “Stop cooing at my horse.”

“Why not? He seems to like it.” You touch his mane as best as you can with your hands still tied. “Right, Bucky?” The horse has an extra pep in his step with you figuring out his nickname. You continue to giggle, Hobie has no idea how Bucky warmed up to you so fast. “Where to, Hobs? Home?” You ask excitedly.

“Yes, your home.”

“Wait— What?!” You almost fell off with how fast you looked back at him.

—

All your questions were left unanswered, but you still think he's playing some sort of joke on you, a joke that is getting older with every tick of the giant clock that hangs above the railway station. A tumbleweed passes by on the train tracks, a warm breeze passes by the near empty train station. Hobie stands next to you, leaning on a pillar, eyes roaming around the barren place. He's far enough that you can't reach him and tell him all the words you wanted to say to him since he left. Yet, he's close enough that you can admire all the physical changes.

From the scruff of his growing beard, to the peeking scar around his neck—he looks like he grew up. The smoke from his cigarette curls upwards to the brim of his hat, parting ways down the middle like theater curtains that show his chiseled face. His jade eyes are as green as the grass at home, as green as the fields you used to run around with him. It reminds you of home, and at the same time, it reminds you of the years that went by without those green eyes by your side.

“You look really good.” You finally say something that isn't a question. Fingers playing with the gold band around your middle finger. “Seriously, what's your secret?” Your behind hurts from the hard wood of the bench. Travelers are sparse and far in between, you notice them staying away from you.

As predicted, he doesn't answer.

You copy his voice and demeanor just how you remembered it last. “Well, love, the secret is to bathe in cow's milk at least once a week. And to stay away from the sun.” You keep your smile despite the silence from your companion. “That's probably what you'd say.” He barely even looks at you. “Well, five years isn't that long,” you lie, it was an eternity without him. “I always thought you'd age well—”

“Five years is a long fuckin' time, Y/N.”

“Finally, a word from your mouth.” You reach towards him, impatiently showing him your tied hands. “Can you untie me now? I can't run from you, with my ankle still hurting and the fact that I'm starving and dehydrated, I won't be doing any running for a while.”

“You're starving?” There's a glimmer of worry in his eyes.

“Yes,” you almost exclaim. Hobie takes one step towards you, instead of untying your binds, he takes your bandana that hangs around your neck. You flinch in response, an act that has him questioning what happened to you in those five years he left.

Hobie kneels in front of you, more careful of any sudden movement, a vision of a younger him passes over your mind's eye. He lifts your skirt up, enough to show the wound on your ankle. Gloved hands wrap gingerly around your foot as he places it on top of his thigh.

“The bleedin' stopped,” not once has he looked in your eyes. While you stare at him affectionately, a soft smile on your tired lips. Hobie wraps your bandana around the wound, tying it with a knot that you're familiar with. You grin at the memory of him using it all the time. “There,” just as you thought, he taps your foot three times, a habit of his that you're fond of. Hobie realizes what he has done subconsciously, straightening up, he takes a wrapped biscuit from his pocket. Grabbing your hand, he places it unceremoniously on your palm like your skin burns him like a sinner to holy water. “Your people will be here any minute.”

“We've been waiting here for two hours. And who—? What people?”

“The people who want you back home.”

You almost drop the biscuit. “But I don't want to come home! I want to stay with you—!”

“Why are you really ‘ere, Y/N? Hmm? Great aunt not givin’ you enough allowance?” He flicks the cigarette butt away.

Your heart cracks, voice as small as a dormouse. “Why are you being like this?” Hobie inhales sharply. “I told you, I came to see you because of your letter where you wrote that you missed me and wanted to see me. I–I have so many of mine right here—” A train whistle rings out before Hobie could reply.

The smell of burning coal itches your nose, blackened smoke billowing out of the metal beast that creaks and shrieks on the steel tracks.

A small crowd exits the train once it fully stops. You notice Hobie standing closer to you, hand placed on the back of the bench. His eyes search for someone amidst the travelers while you take big bites of the dry biscuit, desperate to satiate the rumbling of your stomach. Damn all the etiquette lessons drilled into your brain, you're starving.

“Can I have some water?” You cough out, palm covering your mouth for some decency. “Hobie?” His head is on a swivel, eyes scanning the stranger's faces. You tug at his coat, he curses under his breath so you retract your hand quickly. “I'm sorry.” Your small voice startles him.

“What?” He looks down at you, your eyes are glued on your lap, palms up like you're waiting for punishment. His jaw tightens, knuckles shaking. What happened to you after he ran? “‘ere,” passing a canteen of water over to you, he places it on your open palms gingerly.

The cool metal of the canteen hits your skin, instead of stinging pain. “Thank you,” you take a drink, Hobie doesn't miss how your hands shake, almost spilling water all over yourself.

“Stop sayin' that.” He says it through a softer tone, “don't be so polite.” He's not trying to chastise you, but you don't know the difference.

“Sorry—I'll stop.” You close the lid to the canteen, giving it back to him without lifting your head up.

As the crowd thins, Hobie controls his breathing. It was better when you were looking at him, at least then he could see how happy you were.

“No one's here.” He finally says, the hands on his sides stretching, joints aching from the previous tightness of his knuckles.

“Because no one's looking.” You hope that was the case. Or at least it was just her looking for you, not him too.

“The reward on your head says otherwise.” Hobie wishes he didn't say everything that passes by his mind when you look at him like a heartbroken fawn. “C’mon.” He takes your arm, helping you stand up. He's ill equipped to handle emotions right now, especially if he can barely control his own.

“Where are we going?” You ask, shoes thumping across the floorboards.

“The post office, it's right around the corner.” Sure enough, the post office is connected to the railroad station. Convenient, you thought. Stopping next to Bucky on his post, he neighs at the sight of you. You smile at him, even though he can't possibly understand your expression. Hobie taps his saddle, subtly asking your permission to lift you up. You nod once, as if you could say no. With one strong lift, you're back on Bucky's saddle. “Right, stay ‘ere, scream if you're in trouble.”

“You're leaving me here?”

“No, I need to check my telegram. I can see you through the window, yeah?” He points at the foggy windows of the post office. “I'll be back in five.”

“What if someone comes?”

He's already halfway to the office. “Scream.”

An old woman with a cane and a trendy dress passes by, seeing your bound hands, she tosses Hobie a look of disapproval.

“It's fine, she's my wife and she likes to roleplay.” Once upon a time, he thought that he'd call you that for real. That was a different time. “Ain't that right, sweetheart?” He opens the door for the woman who looks at you for reassurance.

You give the stranger your best smile. “Yes, my love.” His finger twitches, breath hitching. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am, it's all good.”

The older woman scoffs, muttering a ‘the youth and their weird sex fantasies.’ She enters the office first while Hobie gives you an approving nod.

“The excuse wasn't even good.”

“It worked right?” With a smug smile on his lips, he enters the office while you settle on Bucky.

“Your rider's weird.” You whisper to his horse who huffs in response.

Hobie grabs a form on a table placed near the windows. He has the perfect view of you chatting with Bucky. A smile creeps up on him, to which he tamps down immediately. Writing all the necessary information, with a fake name and address of course, he gives it to the man at the counter who wordlessly reads it and searches in the back for any letters for him.

He watches you smile at his horse, desperately trying to remember how your laughter sounded. A real one where you would almost choke at your own spit because of a joke he told you. The smile curls around his lips once again.

An envelope slides out of the slot, his fake name, Larry Smith, is written in neat writing. He rips it open immediately, eyes skimming the contents. The words ‘change of plans’, ‘moved south’ that are followed by an address that he's familiar with in the southern area has him taking his hat off, hands rubbing along his hairline from how crappy the situation is. Judging by all the detail on the letter, it would take him weeks to get you there, months if something unsavory happens on the road. He has a feeling that something would happen based on the reward increase that's listed next to the address. From five thousand to six.

Your piercing scream rings all the alarm bells in his body, bolting straight away, he sees you try to fight off a couple of men that are quickly riding off with you. They're moving three ways from Sunday, their laughter fading out. Hobie's blood boils.

Buckeye neighs loudly, waking his rider up from his blind anger. Hobie unhitches the dark horse, long leg swinging over the saddle, boots immediately placed inside the stirrups, hands tightly curled around the reins. And off he goes, leaving the railroad station in the dust, galloping incredibly fast.

He hears you yell his name just before you were abruptly cut off by a cloth shoved in your mouth. “Y/N!” Desperately calling for you, anger rolls off him like an avalanche in the winter. Taking his pistol out, with one hand he aims. But with the speed and the jostling around, he can't aim straight—especially if there's a chance of him shooting you instead.

The phantom pain around his neck aches.

Adrenaline rushes through him, he sees reason, aiming at the other man that isn't holding you. With a click, and a squeeze of the trigger—he shoots. The bullet whizzes by with a piercing sound, hitting the man's shoulder, turning his insides out, spraying warm crimson everywhere. The pained yell he let out would haunt your dreams. Moreso of the sorrow filled scream his companion let out.

With a thud, the limp body falls, his own horse running him over. You shut your eyes, mind crawling back to the one place you were happy staying forever in, Hobie's tiny flat back home. Back when afternoon tea consists of him rambling about some new invention he thought of, back when his hands would roam over your skin softly. Back when you held him close to you as he whispered promises in your ears.

Now it's all rough leather against your hand, jade eyes avoiding your own, mouth permanently etched into a frown. You know him, deep down the Hobie who would press feather light kisses on your lips is still in him. That deep down he has built a façade to survive this lawless land, and it's hard for him to break that carefully made façade in one day. You'd find his softness again, but you have to survive this first.

The horse you've been thrown on has finally stopped running. Your chest hurts from all the jostling, you were placed stomach first on the saddle—where the jagged leather uncomfortably rubbed against you and the spine of the horse hit you over and over again. The strange man yanks you away, now you're completely standing up with a gun pressing on your temple. A cry inches up to your throat, the cloth in your mouth chokes you. The man smells of cow shit and iron.

You watch as Bucky halts to a stop, dust flying around like the fireflies back home. The hat on Hobie's head hides the anger in his eyes, trigger finger itching to shoot again.

You cry, his name muffled by the cloth. You didn't mean to cry, but everything hurts. The warm barrel of the gun digs into your skull, whilst your hands grip the stranger's arm, your nails hopelessly trying to claw him away from you. The stranger smells like death.

“You killed my brother!” The man screams in your ears, breath rancid, warm air tickling your cheek. Amidst the loud rushing of your blood in your ears, you hear hurried footsteps behind you. They sound like there could be dozens of them, all pointing their guns at the man you loved. Still love, even now.

Hobie doesn't get off his horse. He sits still, frozen like a bronze statue. The only indication of him being alive was his labored breathing.

“What's happenin’?” A gruff voice asks from behind, thick southern drawl making him stand out from the rest of the gang. “Who's this, Jacky?”

“The broad, the broad from the telegram. Henry and I recognized her, thought we'd be rich. We saw her first!” Jacky acts like a child throwing a tantrum.

“Where's Henry then?” The older sounding man asks.

“With a bullet in him,” Hobie's voice is calm, cold and calculating, none of the warmth you were used to. “He's laying in a pool of his own blood a few ways from ‘ere. I bet the coyotes have him now.”

“You fucker!” Jacky presses the gun closer, you cry out in pain. Hobie's hand twitches. “I'll fucking shoot her! I swear I'd shoot!”

“Do you think that's worth it? Getting her blood all over your nice camp?” Hobie's unfeeling tone makes you weep harder. “Killin’ your mark? My mark?” He speaks commandingly, teeth gritted.

You look up to the heavens, blue sky engulfing your vision. A part of you wants to go home, a part that regrets running away in the first place. But there's a bigger part of you that's glad that you saw him again, even though you face your imminent death. It was worth it, you suppose. At least now your heart can rest after seeing him alive. You close your eyes when the pistol next to your head clicks.

“You talk big, a life for a life then.” A tear slides down your cheek. Hobie aims for your captor's head.

“Wait a damn minute!” You hear footsteps come from behind, the older man steps between them. “I know I remember ya from somewhere.” He tips his hat at Hobie, just in time for you to see him stare at you back intensely. “Yeah, I know ya. You're the one who took out Culver's men in one night, ain't ya? Thirty fuckin’ men all dead in one night.” Gasps are heard from the dozen or so people from behind. You hear whispers of the name ‘spider of the west’ behind you. “Christ, you're him.” With his hands right next to his head in surrender, he looks over his shoulder over to you, you see fear in the old man's eyes. “Let the little miss go, Jacky.”

“An eye for an eye, Arthur—!” Jacky pleads.

“Let her go or I'll be the one putting a bullet to your head, boy!” His scream has you flinching.

Jacky reluctantly lets you go, you almost crumple to your feet but you still stand, not wanting to give them the satisfaction. Your hands tremble as you take out the musty cloth inside your mouth.

Arthur walks over to you, hand ghosting over your back. “‘m sorry about that, sweetheart.”

You walk with your head held high. “Don't say sorry.” Your tear filled eyes flick over to the bearded man. “You’re not the one who hurt me.”

“Still, I'd like to say sorry on behalf of my belligerent men.” He looks up at Hobie who's still sitting on his horse passively. But the older man seems to know the deadly storm brewing behind those emerald eyes. “I apologize for the…miscommunication. If my men knew who you were, they wouldn't have tried anythin'. Jacky and his brother are too big for their breeches. ”

“The next time I see any of you on the road, I won't hesitate.” Hobie says, eyes bright, burning like greek fire.

“As is your right. You take care now.”

You silently lift yourself up on Bucky, with the help from Hobie, hand sliding away the moment you successfully tug yourself up behind him. Hobie doesn't see how vacant your stare is. You refuse to hold on to him, you're afraid of what he did, not of him. He thinks it's the other way around, it's his worst nightmare.

As you both gallop away, the last thing you heard above the hoofbeats is the unmistakable sound of a gun going off.

—

You're getting further and further away from the town you were in. The sun sets next to you as you look at the blood caked under your nails. You no longer shake or cry, just numb.

Buckeye passes by a lone graveyard, metal fences jagged and angled awkwardly. The dilapidated chapel cracks and falls under its own weight. Crows have made a home on the old tombstones, their cawing and beady black eyes raise the skin on your arms. The names of the dead are barely readable on the tombstones—rotten pots of flowers lay on the bed of graveyard soil, black petals going back to where they came from. You look away, afraid that if you don't, you'd see yourself among them.

The large rock formations loom overhead, jagged lines curved and sculpted by time. The holes dotted along its large walls act like a thousand eyes watching over you. Beady limestone eyes twitching, bleading, and crying. The sun fades away behind the horizon, cold replacing warmth, shadows replacing light.

Everything aches, your legs are still shaking from the encounter, the rustling tumbleweeds makes you jump. Eyes frantic, breath quickening, hands going numb—mind reeling back to the bloodied dead man.

“Stop.” You say too quietly. “Stop the fucking horse!”

Hobie reigns in Bucky, halting to a stop. You slid off ungracefully, knee hitting the ground as you scramble away. Bile rises in your throat, acid expelled out of your mouth because of your near empty stomach.

Familiar footsteps walk behind you, you wait for him to close the distance, to hold you close like he has always done five years ago. Yet, he stays far, stopping just a few feet away from your trembling body.

With shaky legs, you stand up, back still facing him. You wipe your mouth clean with your sleeve, Hobie's hand twitches for the handkerchief inside his pocket. He doesn't give it to you. He doesn't know why he didn't. Sniffing, you cough, eyes still stinging.

“Did they hit your head?” He finally says something, his words echoing in the vast empty space.

“No, I'm fine.” You pass by him, hands braced on Bucky's side.

“Y/N—”

You whirl around, “I said I'm fucking fine!” Heaving, chest aching, you rub your tired eyes. “I'm fine, don't worry about me, okay? Can we go?”

“We'll camp ‘ere.” With Hobie's statement, you look back at where you came from. Your captor's camp is miles away from you now, but you swear you can still feel the barrel of his gun digging into your skull, and the rotten smell of his mouth. “They won't follow us.”

“He knew you,” your eyes don't shine with the same optimism he was greeted with. “He looked scared when he remembered you. Hobie, W–what did you do to get him to fear you like that?”

“A lot of things you shouldn't worry about.” He walks past you, grabbing his pack from the saddle. “The less you know, the better.”

You nod, tears brimming in your eyes. He's not the old Hobie you remembered. He would've told you, he used to tell you everything. The gold ring in your finger feels heavy. And all the unsent letters you've hidden inside your skirt feels empty, the flowery words you've written inside are unrequited.

As day fades away to night, the moon shines bright as the stars twinkle above you. The warmth of the open fire settles into your fatigued bones, the pads of your fingers slowly regains feeling. The air is crisp, breeze blowing your lashes, cooling down the hot can of beans in front of you. The scene in front of you reminded you of the time you used to sneak out into the woods to meet with Hobie. He'd light a small fire and huddle close to you while you point out constellations. The beans are new, you wish they were bread instead, like the ones you used to nick from the kitchen.

This time, he sits across from you, far away from you as the fire cackles in between you both. The flames dance in his green eyes, a beautiful sight that you love—yet, you can't help but stay away from it.

“Cold?” He asks, hands properly warmed up from the hot can.

“No,” you answer flatly, legs tucked into you, chin placed atop your knees while you watch the embers flicker away into the dark. The cold helps, it helps numb you down.

“Alright.”

In another time he would've offered his coat, not just the shabby itchy blanket thrown over your shoulders. It all seems like a lifetime ago now.

You have no idea what caused him to leave without a goodbye, whether it was you or your unfeeling family, or for a pursuit of something better—but you know in those five years he has changed, you know he's still the Hobie you love, but you can barely recognize his heart anymore. You came to the new world for a new life with him, away from your predetermined life, because through and through you still love him. The promises he once whispered into your skin repeats in your head like a broken record. It's what's keeping you warm, sane, and in the present.

He eats silently, while you wallow into yourself. You've braved the ocean to see him, rode a dozen trains to get close to him, lost so much and gained so little just to see him alive. Was it all worth it? Worth all the calluses on your feet from all the walking? Worth all the tears you shed just to realize that maybe he doesn't love you anymore? That he fell out of love in those five grueling years?

Does he know that you still love him?

The man sitting across from you is a stranger. Not the one you promised your heart to.

“Hobie?” You call for him, heavy eyes staying on the ashes in front of you.

“Hmm?” He hums, barely audible for you. You silently wish that you don't get used to all his halfhearted replies. You need to hold on to a part of him from five years ago or you'll go crazy and run off into the barren lands of the west.

Against better judgment, against the screaming voice in your head, you finally look at him right in his eyes. “Why'd you leave?”

He quietly sighs, “I had to.” Those green eyes you love so much swirl with unsung emotion that you're not privy to. “Why'd you run away from home?”

“I had to.”

Hobie nods once.

You take your dinner in your cold hands, biting down the bitterness and the feeling. With an inhale, you smile through the pain of your realization. It's better not to dwell on it, or you might lose yourself. Instead, you take the opportunity to live in the moment with him—Relish your time with Hobie or whatever time you have left with him on the journey home.

159 notes · View notes

khuzena · 6 months

Text

Your Guardian Angel

Sunday x g/n!reader

Summary: oh guardian angel, my sweet guardian angel. Save me, Save me. If you can't, what're you truly for? When your angel loves you, when he betrays destiny for you; only for his wings to be chipped at the expense of a helpless attempt.

Cw. Very angsty, falling in love (but it's forbidden), religious references (specifically Christian topics) AU where ppl can talk to their angels lol, mentions of self harm but no actual scene with it!!!, no bandaid can fix the emotional wound after reading this. SOME fluff, no comfort like usual. 🫨🫨🫨 YOU DIE!

A/n: I'm on fire (like literally. It's 36° here.)

Your knees burn as you stare up at the altar displayed in front you, you wonder if the aeons would be kind enough to finally send you your guardian angel.

“Please,” you begged, wishing any god to heed your call, “Just this once I'll ask.”

“Send me someone kind, someone to protect me.”

That day, fate was generous enough to grant you your angel.

A chill ran down your spine, rubbing your eyes for good measure to make sure you weren't dreaming.

“You called?”

You gulp nervously, the being's halo blinding you.

One, he reached his hand out to you, his smile all you needed to feel okay.

Your guardian angel accompanies you whenever you go out to buy groceries, when your fingers trace along the unhealthy snack bar, he's quick to tut and swat your hand away.

“That's unhealthy, dear.”

“But—”

“Just this once?”

He shook his head no, feeling distraught, you devised a plan to grab a pack of double chocolate cookies; much to his dismay.

Who did you think you were fooling?

“Dear, I said no.”

You sighed, “Just one?”

Out of all the humans on the list, why'd he pick you? But when you smile at him so brightly, out of every human he's ever guided, he's still unsure of his answer—

Your shoulders slump, “Pretty please?”

He exhales an exasperated sigh, letting you win over him just this once.

“Fine.”

— Maybe he is, Maybe he isn't.

There were times nightmares were unkind and brutal that you'd wake up in cold sweat. Your mind flashing you memories of the past you wished to lock away, you'd pray again.

“Dear, wake up,” that familiar soothing voice ringing in your ears.

Where? The shackles of that dream still bruise you harshly, yet your loving guardian angel is there to soothe your scars.

“It's okay.”

It's not okay, you know.

No words were exchanged when he took your hand in his, his honey eyes seeing through you, “Just breathe.”

Your tears found solace in his shoulder as he patted your back, letting you cry it all out, “It hurts, Sunday.”

“I know,” his gloved hand wiping your tears gently, “I know.”

Like a child, for many dreadful nightmares to come, you cry and cry for him to relieve you of this pain. You needn't to get on your knees and ask the aeons for comfort. All you need to do is shed a single tear and he'll kiss them away.

Two, your oh so sweet guardian angel, he drives them all away.

Years pass and you've grown used to your guardian angel, you'd find him taking the form of an owl.

Like one time, you were in class— culinary class to be specific. Who knows what aeon decided to ruin your day and made you trip on a puddle of leftover batter on the tiled floor.

“Eek—!”

You'd think you'd hit head first but something held you up, when you turned around, there was no one there.

The owl perched on the branch just outside the window, shook its head in dismay, once again, you don't die today.

He may save you from all catastrophes but he cannot save you from impending doom.

As an angel, by all means, he has every right to read your destiny; woven by lord Xipe, of course.

Eyes narrowing at the scroll, your life ends early when you get roped into an unforeseen accident at a public event.

“Sunday, dear. 5 days until your host departs,” his beloved lord's voice echoing the room as they loom over his shoulder to watch your end unfold.

“We should find you a new human.”

Sunday trembled at the sight, a memory he wishes to never replay again. You were in an event and some drunkard decides to shoot it all up, bullets ablaze as you get caught in the crossfire.

“I…”

I mustn't disobey lord Xipe.

“Yes, lord Xipe,” he gave a weak smile to his god, your death still replaying.

How could he be fine?

When you tell him of your dreams, how you'd leave this wretched city, leave penacony and write your own fate; when destiny had already set yours in stone.

“Do you think I'll become big in the industry?”

The sunset falls upon you too and he doesn't have it in him to tell you what's bound to happen to you, “Yes.”

“You sound hesitant.”

“I'm just thinking.”

It wasn't often you see Sunday like… this.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, “It's nothing.”

You two have been together long enough that it only takes you a second to realise the shift in the atmosphere, “Whatever, I'm going to be successful and we'll travel.”

He wonders if you noticed the way his wings are stiffening at your words, he may be an angel, “Sure,” but he is a liar first.

He doesn't want to think about it, he doesn't want to remember.

Your curious eyes never leave him, he wishes it did. He wishes he never got too attached.

That disgustingly sweet smile of yours, you'll never know that it made home in his head.

“Here,” he wore the rosary in your hand, it felt comforting feeling his gloved hand against your skin, “What is this for?”

He still doesn't have the courage to look you in the eye knowing 3 days from now they'd be devoid of light, “For protection, to show devotion to our god.”

You let out a hum of approval, admiring the beads.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes”

“I'm glad.”

Fleeting moments like these don't last. But when he musters up the courage to look you in the eyes again; he wishes that Lord Xipe was loving enough that this moment would.

Destiny is a strange thing. It gives you time to dream but never enough time to do.

Just where the hell were you?

Sunday panics as he flies over the crowd, exactly a minute before your death.

Lord Xipe must be cruel, watching from the stars as he scurries in the mortal realm like a rat to save a mere mortal like you.

“Sunday?”

‘Bang.’

You hear gunshots piercing the skies and those beside you.

“What's happening—”

“Just shut up,” angels were not allowed to be this crude but for your sake, he covered your eyes as he led the two of you behind a pillar.

Your gut instinct tells you to run but you've grown to trust him enough with your life. How could you not when he gently wraps his arms around your trembling figure?

“S-sun… day…,” you cried, feeling something piercing your stomach.

But how? He… he saved you didn't he?

“Stay calm,” he scolds you as if he wasn't scrambling around his options on how to save you, “Please.”

He prays, “Lord Xipe, please.”

But songs stay unsung, prayers remain unheard.

He cries to the sky as crimson stains his gloves, his holy tears cannot patch your wounds. His prayers cannot fix you. If he had known, he would not have sung those odes to lord Xipe, if only he had known his god's mercy was nothing but just strings of fallacies.

“Lord Xipe!”

An agonising scream that transcends the barrier of heaven and earth, yet his beloved god turned their back on him.

Your eyes shut then he felt the hand that intertwined with him go limp, “Lord Xipe.”

In desperate sobs, “Please.”

No amount of begging would bring you back, just like his sister, Robin, you are dead, you are gone.

Not being able to save you— he's betrayed you.

He kissed your cheek before letting death take you.

My God, why have you forsaken me?

He has no time to mourn, “It burns,” under the scrutinising gaze of the divine, his wings turn charcoal black.

Lord Xipe is all forgiving yet they have abandoned him for something so little.

A god so forgiving, yet when Sunday looks down at his hands, only a shade of balsam and black stare back at him.

There is no redemption for his sin, there is no redemption for either of you.

You can no longer dream, he can no longer dream with you.

His halo crumbles into ash and an undeniably painful grief fills him, “Lord xipe.”

His radiant halo no more, only to be replaced by the glow of the sunset like a crown of thorns.

He cries again, his god is gone and you are too.

Note: forgive me if its kinda shit, i really can't think of an angst idea for sunday that isn't yandere since im not rlly big about yan tropes anddd not proofread. I hope y'all enjoyed it tho, i just needed to get this idea out of my brain. Sunday is vv manipulative but i js wanted to write a ver of him thats just gentle ISTFGGGGGG

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡

#what have i done #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr fluff #hsr x reader #sunday x reader #sunday fluff #hsr sunday #hsr angst #hsr sunday x reader #honkai star rail sunday #honkai star rail sunday x reader

251 notes · View notes

inkedtae · 7 months

Text

xi. rotten angelcake ⇾ kth. [M]

chapter eleven : take the day off ⤑ ❝ “That didn’t seem to get her anywhere.” // “And where are you hoping this gets you?” // On my knees. ❞

⇽ prev. | masterlist | next ⇾

⌁ pairing; ceo!taehyung x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre/rating; s2l, ceo au, sugar daddy au, smut, fluff, 18+

⌁ word count; 16.5k

⌁ warnings; dom!taehyung, daddy!taehyung, sub!reader, brat!reader, virgin!reader, daddy kink, praise kink, corruption kink, dirty talk, dry humping, a bit of orgasm control, oral (m. receiving), slight degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, multiple orgasm, attempts at deep throating, hair pulling, begging, teasing, some cum play

⌁ playlist

ও as always a hundred thanks to cam ( @sunshinejunghoseokie ) for the pretty, pretty banner!! And special thanks to Jen ( @anobodyslove ) , Alaska ( @bulubulubulublabla ) , and Anya ( @wintertaescape ) for reading over and editing this with it being so long! I really appreciate it !

The sky swirls pink behind sheer clouds. The setting sun peeks through, casting a rose gold gleam into your apartment. Desperate to spread its last little rays of light for the day, it halos around the clouds. If you stare long enough, you can convince yourself that you’re catching a glimpse of heaven.

If Taehyung were here, he’d smile at your words. He’d let his eyes roam over your body before settling back on yours and say something that should sound ridiculously cheesy but still somehow make your heart race. He’d play with your hair, gently tracing the edge of your face with the pad of his fingers. You’d try to look away, but he’d cup your chin and force you to hold his gaze as he tells you something he shouldn’t, something that would excite your core.

KEEP READING

TAGS : @marcoazz2 @complexmolecule @whats-good-ross @mawwnsterr @neverthefirstchoice @taeisbae13 @taeluvrr @llcalumhoodll @finelinememories @taestycake @suh-nrise @ellesalazar @ifntelyinspirit @bambuzlee @lookatmeimmrmeeseek5 @thelilbutifulthings @taepiper @daggersandicedcoffee @satansleftnut @gingerspicetalks @iridescent-5 @merlinkgeroge

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work without my permission.

#kim taehyung smut #kim taehyung fluff #taehyung smut #v smut #taehyung fluff #kim taehyung fanfic #taehyung fanfic

228 notes · View notes

blueywrites · 2 years

Text

trouble

modern au, emt!eddie x fem!reader. the four times you aren't hurt and the one time you are. pure fluff, a little drama, mentions of blood, non-graphic depictions of injuries. (15.8k)

For @newlips' Milestone of Love celebration. Congrats, lovely! 💙

fun fact: the scenario described in Scene 5 is actually pulled directly from real life, minus the pretty metalhead (unfortunately 😔). Also, blame my fatigued brain for not mentioning this last night, but HUGE thanks to my loves @myosotisa @fracturedarkness @abibliophobiaa and @hauntingbastille for all your help and ideas!! Couldn't have done it without you bbys 🫶💙🌻

The sun is beating down on your head, conjuring a halo of sweat that stings your eyes. You’d thrown your hair up into a claw clip some time ago, but it’s coming loose now as you’re jostled by elbows and knees. It’s all claustrophobia, all heat, all overwhelming sensations— the tang of sweat and alcohol on the back of your tongue, the thrum of bass rattling your ribcage, and the roar of guttural screaming ringing in your ears.

You can’t get enough.

You’re a dot of pastel sweetness in a sea of undulating black, the only person at this concert wearing a straw crossbody bag and a dainty summer dress. Though it’s July and nearly ninety-five degrees out, everyone else is dressed in black and chains and ripped denim, sweating even more heavily than you are, thick black eyeliner running as they sing along to Spiritbox’s ‘Blessed Be.’ Your best friend Josie is the same— dark hair shaved on the sides but matted with sweat as it spikes down her back, though her denim cutoffs and fishnet stockings are marginally more practical than the black jeans many others are wearing. You’re practical, too; despite the tiny flowers on your dress and the sweet diamond studs in your ears, your white Converse are just as scuffed as the heavy boots around you.

The band Spiritbox is one of the only interests you and your best friend have in common. Since elementary school, you’ve been the visual equivalent of a sun to her raincloud. Though your tastes differ, your personalities mesh seamlessly, leaving you still thick as thieves; despite going to different colleges, you’d both returned home and found jobs nearby, picking up exactly where you’d left off four years before. It’s obvious why Josie would like this band— she thrives on everything metal and alternative. You typically gravitate toward indie music, but you really love the contrast of Courtney's delicate vocals and the heavy driving music punctuated by Mike's guttural growls. The screaming unlocks something primal inside you, and you bob your head and shout until your voice breaks, sounding just like everyone else.

Your attention is drawn from the stage as bodies to your right compress together when a pit starts to form further up. Instantly, you know what that means; you’re still singing along, but you stop when Josie’s slippery hand finds yours, pulling you in that direction. Her olive green eyes flash eagerly as she glances back at you, and you communicate your acceptance through an answering smile. Josie squeezes between bodies to find the edge of the mosh pit, where she deposits you before diving head-first into the fray.

This isn’t your first Spiritbox show, and you know what to do: you brace, resisting the push of the crowd and jutting your elbows to maintain your space as you watch more dark-clad figures join the writhing, thrashing mess. You split your attention between the pit and the stage, content to keep an eye on your friend and let the coiled aggression of flung bodies stir you further, accentuating the music. You have no desire to mosh, and Josie knows that, but you enjoy watching while she shoves and bounces off others, sharp limbs swinging wildly, staggering with sparkling eyes and a broad grin—

The deafening music muffles the sound of a thick elbow connecting sharply with Josie’s face, but the visual is so jarring that you could swear you hear the crack.

“Josie!” Your hoarse cry cuts through to the closest two thrashing bodies, who halt at its urgency. Despite how violent a mosh pit appears to be, as soon as the moshers realize someone is hurt, the aggression dissolves on impact. You reach out your hands as a chain of helping hands deposits your friend before you with haste.

You guide her immediately through the crowd, which parts almost eagerly at the sight of her blood painting the ground, pressed into the grass by heavy boots. You wince at the hunch of your friend’s shoulders, the visible pain on her face; one of her hands covers her nose but does little to staunch the sticky flow of blood. Josie relies on you to direct her, watery eyes nearly scrunched closed as you emerge from the press of damp bodies at the back of the crowd, dodging around stragglers, eyes scanning for a white canopy and red emblem designating the first aid station. It’s over on the right, peeking over that sea of black, and you head that way.

When you get there, both of the young men there are standing like statues facing the stage, showing you a mop of unruly light brown waves and a long ponytail of dark frizzy curls that might look feminine if it wasn’t for the obvious broadness of his shoulders.

As you reach the table with Josie, the taller man with the ponytail is the first to notice your approach. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt tucked into belted pants, all black on black on black. In fact, he looks more suited to join the crowd than to tend them with the smattering of tattoos on his pale arms and the shaggy bangs that feather his forehead. And he glints with silver— a silver chain around his neck, rings of silver through his ears, even a silver septum piercing with spiked ends that peeks from the bottom of his soft nose. He’d look just like another groupie if not for the paramedic sigil on the breast of his shirt.

Despite his aggressive appearance, his brown eyes are warm as he abandons his view upon spotting you, dark brows flashing up as they scan Josie’s body with a clinical air. “What happened here?” he asks, and his voice is pleasantly smoky, friendly and casual as he pulls on rubber gloves with practiced motions.

“She got hurt,” you supply, relinquishing your friend to him so he can guide her into a folding chair. Despite the inanity of your observation, the man doesn’t react beyond a little twitch of his full lips as he kneels in front of her. Josie also doesn’t offer more explanation, merely grunting as the paramedic gently but firmly pulls her hand away from her face.

You cringe as her arm is moved aside to reveal the mess of her nose and the front of her saturated t-shirt, but he doesn’t bat an eye, wiping her face gently with dampened gauze to clean the drying blood away. As he works, eyes trained on the movements of his fingers, he asks, “What was it, doll? Did you catch an elbow to the face?”

The pet name could have been awkward, but he says it so casually that it doesn’t feel slimy like a come-on would. It just feels like part of his personality to call people names like that.

“Yeah, in the pit,” she grumbles, and he tips his head sympathetically, curly ponytail swaying.

“That’ll do it,” he says. Once Josie’s face is clear of blood, he hands her some dry paper towels, motioning toward her shirt and telling her with some humor, “I’ll just let you handle that part.”

She chuckles wetly, scrunching the fabric in her fist with the towel to press out the blood. As it transfers to the paper, the paramedic clears his used supplies into the biohazard bin before returning to his place, kneeling before her, warning her quietly that he’s going to touch her face before he does it.

You watch, hovering a little awkwardly near them as he palpates her nose gently with the tips of his fingers. He seems to have a way of putting people at ease with the cadence of his voice. It’s casual, almost preternaturally calm, but musical, too, engaging in a way you wouldn’t expect. He remains careful while examining Josie’s nose, even as he grows distracted as a new song starts. He starts glancing over toward the stage, moving through the motions clinically, detached despite the warmth and humor in his voice when he says cheerily, “Well, it’s not broken. That’s a relief, huh?”

She sighs, olive green eyes melting to confirm that it is, in fact, a relief. “Yeah.”

A smiling flash of white eyeteeth and then he’s standing again, skirting around you without really acknowledging you as he digs around in a box of supplies. He returns with an icepack, cracking it to activate the gel inside before wrapping it in more paper towels. “Hold here,” he instructs, showing Josie where to hold it, replacing his sure fingers with her more ginger ones.

“Thank you,” she says, standing and flanking you as he peels off his gloves, folding them inside each other before leaning back against the table with his hands braced behind him. Your eyes are drawn to the tendons of his forearms, pale and dotted with ink.

He doesn’t reply to her thanks directly, though his deep brown eyes twinkle with mischief. “You just had to go gettin’ hurt during the best song of the show, didn't you?”

His tone is exaggerated to ensure she knows he’s teasing, and it’s only when she chuckles that his full lips split in a pleased grin, attention turning again toward the stage as a particularly wicked guitar solo begins.

You pipe up then. “It’s only the best song in the show if they don't play 'Holy Roller.'”

“No way they don’t play 'Holy Roller,'” he retorts instantly, brown eyes flashing in your direction. The loose curls around his jaw lash his chin as his head jerks in a not-so-subtle double-take, and those eyes widen as he realizes it was you and not your friend who spoke. His gaze flicks you up and down quickly, taking in your sweet floral dress and your white converse. When his eyes catch yours, the curl of his lips reveals a level of intrigue. “And here I thought you were just the chaperone,” he says, again with that teasing, musical cadence that seems characteristic.

There’s the temptation to be offended, but this guy seems harmless beneath the ink and frizzy shag; the wolfishness of his smile doesn’t bely the warmth in his eyes. Guessing that he can probably take as much as he dishes out, you scoff, quirking a brow and pursing your lips in mock offense. “Maybe you shouldn’t make snap judgments about people. I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.”

A barking laugh pierces the air between you, and despite yourself, you can’t suppress a smile. Rather than being put off by your challenge, he seems delighted; the manic widening of those plush lips crinkles the corners of his eyes. His smile instantly brightens his face as he tips his head toward you. “Touché,” he says before straightening up, pushing off the table to jam his hands in his back pockets.

The sudden weight of his stare has your skin prickling despite the heat of the July sun; you turn from it quickly to ask Josie if she’s doing okay now.

She pulls the icepack from her face, scrunching her nose to test out the pain. “Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, I wanna get back out there.” She scowls, craning her head as if she’s looking for something.

“Back to our spot, you mean?”

“No, back to the pit,” she replies incredulously as if it’s obvious. Your brow crinkles with a mixture of dismay and wry fondness, but you know better than to offer resistance. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s that Josie takes your reminders of caution as a personal offense. As you start to walk away from the medic tent, falling into stride together, she shoots you a sour glare, grumbling, “This is what happens when you feed me jello shots.”

Your outrage is instant; you spin on your heel, stopping short to face her and gripe right back, though she doesn’t slow when you do. “I did not! Actually, you stole my jello shots, Josie.”

“Ah, I get it now. You look like an angel, but you’re secretly trouble.” You hear that teasing cadence behind you, and you turn to find the paramedic standing beside his companion once again, body angled toward the stage but head tilted to eye you slantingly. He looks amused, and you’re torn between blushing and pouting, protesting and giggling, so you just freeze, doing none of the above. Unbothered, he twists and bends smoothly to root in the cooler behind the folding table. Your eyes are drawn to the cords of his pale neck and the flash of silver in his ears.

“Here,” he says, straightening and offering you two water bottles held together in one broad hand. He drops the joking tease, all professional concern once again. “Take some water with you. Make sure you keep hydrated if you’re drinking.”

You backtrack quickly to take both bottles from him, smiling as you meet his warm brown eyes. “Thank you,” you say.

“You got it,” he replies, but you don’t hear— you’re too busy hurrying to catch up with Josie, who’s cutting a path right back to the pit, stubborn as always.

The walk from the company parking lot to your office building is two long blocks away and takes a brisk five minutes, eight if you’re not in a rush. And you’re not this morning. The sweltering August heat has decided to grace your town with a brief reprieve; all the typical ills of summer are eased today, leaving behind a pleasant dry heat, a slight breeze, and bright sun in a puffy-cloud sky. You relish your brief stroll in the sunshine and find yourself wishing your cubicle faced the park across the street, if only so you could torture yourself with its tantalizing view, yearning to instead be seated on a bench shaded by the cherry trees.

Your gaze drifts that way as you walk along the sidewalk, and a bright spot of yellow catches your attention. As you draw closer to your building, the shape discerns itself into an old man swaddled in a canary-yellow raincoat, the plasticky hood caught between his hunched shoulders and the back of the wooden bench. Beneath the open raincoat is a checkered shirt, a pair of brown trousers, and a bowtie that looks to be his Sunday best, though it’s currently Thursday. His loafer scuffs the concrete beneath him as he swings one foot absently, gazing up at the puffy-clouded sky.

Another individual relishing this unexpected gift early in the morning. You smile softly to yourself and turn from the old man as you grasp the handle, pulling the heavy glass door open. A blast of cold air unleashes upon you, and you shiver your way to the elevator. As the aluminum doors slide open, the park slips from your mind, evaporating like dew from grass.

Four hours later, the brrringing of phones and the fuzz of light office chatter have fully replaced the sound of early morning birdsong in your ears. Your eyes flick to the bottom right corner of your laptop just in time to see the forty-nine tick to fifty. The sight brings relief and a timely grumble of your stomach, and you close the lid of your laptop decisively. The promise of a cobb salad from your favorite nearby lunch shop hastens your steps to the elevator.

When you push open that heavy glass door once again, the air is warmer, and the street is more active now, but the sun on your skin is just as welcome. The park and its cherry trees call to you as they had this morning, and your eyes find that bench you’d been yearning for once again. It’s empty now, almost beckoning for you. You indulge in the sight for a moment despite your hunger, lush green blooming behind brown wood, visible between the cars that zoom past.

And then the tiniest sliver of canary yellow peeks from beyond a bush.

You were about to walk on, but you pause then, craning your neck to try to catch more of that color. A small shift and you see it again— the canary yellow of what is undoubtedly the sleeve of a raincoat.

Is that the same old man from this morning? Even as you question it, you know the answer; you know it must be him. You frown, puzzled, wavering as you’re torn between two impulses. Your stomach pangs hollowly, reminding you of cobb salad. What business is it of yours what a stranger does? You imagine how silly you’d feel wandering over there to bother him for no reason. But as you watch him, he hobbles further into your sight, resting one unsteady hand against the trunk of a nearby tree. Your heart stirs, and you find your feet moving of their own accord to the crosswalk.

You approach him slowly at first, with the caution one might use when edging toward a wild animal. His back is turned to you, revealing a head of thin gray hair haloed around a sizeable bald spot like candy floss. Hesitantly, you inch closer, feeling a little ridiculous as he fidgets there in the grass just off the path, one hand still tremulously holding onto the trunk as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. His eyes are darting over the bushes and paths restlessly, as if searching. You’re just deciding what to say— or even whether to say something at all— when he turns his head and catches sight of you with watery eyes.

His brows jump as he registers you, and his pruny mouth opens in a little ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh,” he says, sounding delightedly surprised. “Hello!”

You feel a bit caught out, heat rushing to your cheeks as he pivots slowly to face you, one hand still stuck to the tree. But you’re committed now that he’s seen you; you might as well follow through on your impulse. “Hi, sir,” you try, “are you looking for someone?”

The old man doesn’t answer your question. Instead, very matter-of-factly, he says, “My knees are hurtin’ me.”

It has you reaching for him almost automatically, hooking your hand underneath his elbow. He welcomes your help unhesitantly and without complaint, shifting with your coaxing grip. He feels so frail beneath your fingers, almost weightless; when he lets go of the trunk to rely on your stability, you hardly notice the difference. He barely lifts his feet when he walks, loafers dragging in the grass, and you edge with him toward the path with tiny shuffling steps. Stepping from the grass to the concrete feels laborious as he trembles with the effort.

As you lead him patiently back toward the bench from this morning, you can’t help but wonder how long he’d been standing by the tree. And then, you can’t help but wonder how he even got here to the park, considering how much effort it’s taking him to walk a dozen feet. This isn’t a residential area, and this man isn’t just old. He’s positively feeble.

He clasps your hand as you help him turn and sinks down onto the wood with a bone-weary sigh of relief. Rather than releasing your hand, he pats the back of it with his other, smiling pleasantly. “Thank you, Ruthie,” he says, continuing to pat your hand as if he’s unaware of it. “I’m ready to go home now.”

You blink with utter bafflement, eyes flitting over the old man’s creased face and his watery blue eyes gazing at you with fondness. It dawns on you fairly quickly that this man isn’t just having trouble finishing his casual stroll in the park. And it explains why he’d looked surprised but happy to see you and hadn’t offered any resistance when you helped him.

Yet you have no idea who he is or where he lives, and your name is not, in fact, Ruthie.

You chew your lip as you look into his placid face. He seems calm right now, but if he’s confused— if something medical is going on— that could be easily disturbed. Gently, you chance a question. “Where is home? Do you know your address?”

His face scrunches up, wrinkles folding on themselves as he squints at you quizzically. His voice gains more strength with its incredulity. “What d’ya mean, Ruth? Born and raised in the same house and you don’t remember our address?” He shakes his head, glancing away as he pulls back his hands and folds them in his lap.

Well, that clarifies it— he clearly thinks you’re his daughter, though you’re probably about twenty years too young for that. Your thoughts whir as you consider how to respond and keep him from becoming truly agitated. “Aw, you got me!” you say, pretending you were pulling his leg. He seems to buy it as his frown eases and he looks back at you with begrudging amusement. Gently, you say, “I just gotta make a phone call, and then we can go, okay?”

The old man’s reply is perfectly jovial, and it fills you with relief. “Tha’s okay, dear. I got my crossword.” He reaches inside the raincoat and pulls out a tightly-folded rectangle from the breast of his checkered shirt, working it open to reveal a creased page from the newspaper. He digs in his pants pocket, and a pencil emerges along with some crumpled tissues and plastic-wrapped suckers that scatter near his feet. You frown, eyes darting between his spilled belongings— or trash— and his face. He doesn’t notice as he settles into the seat, seeming content to wait and work on his crossword.

You have half a mind to pick the candies up so he won’t trip on them, but the phone call you have planned seems more urgently needed. You trail a few steps away to call the non-emergency police number, eyes darting to and from the old man as you provide your location and explain the situation quietly to the operator. “He seems… confused,” you say. “Like, not all there.”

“Is he agitated?”

“No,” you say. “But he thinks he knows me, and I don’t know him. He keeps calling me Ruth when that’s not my name.” Nervousness bubbles at the base of your throat, concern rising for the older man whom you now view as your responsibility. “Do you think he’s okay?”

There’s a pause, and then the operator says neutrally, “It could be a number of things. I’m sending someone out right now to check on him. Are you okay to wait with him until the paramedics arrive?”

You’re already nodding before the question is finished. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“All right. They’re on their way.”

You hang up and glance at the man again, feeling a tug at your heart when you see him holding the crossword so close to his nose, how the paper wobbles in his grasp. He seems caught up in it, which honestly is a relief. You don’t know how much longer you’d be able to keep up the pretense of knowing him if he wanted to talk to you more. Your cobb salad is all but forgotten now as worry prickles in your chest; you stand sentry over this stranger from a distance, keeping an attentive eye on him as you wait for help to come.

It doesn’t take too long for the ambulance to arrive, and your heart leaps as it pulls along the curb in front of the park. You jolt forward a couple of steps, fluttering your fingers in a little awkward wave at the blurry figures behind the glass as if they need your help finding the old man in the bright yellow coat, as if they need your assistance at all, really. You feel silly again, cheeks burning as you impulsively change your mind. Rather than meeting the paramedics at the ambulance, you march over and plop down next to the old man on the bench.

He startles slightly when you join him, and you almost feel bad to have scared him, but then he’s smiling at you again. “Ruthie!” He exclaims. “Is it time to go to the cleaners?”

You’re saved from having to answer as you hear the ambulance door pop open, and you follow the old man’s gaze to the figure swinging himself jauntily down from the rig with one pale hand braced atop the door.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Even at this distance, that frizzy shag of curls is unmistakable, though it’s loose around his shoulders now. You remember what you’d said at the concert almost a month ago: ‘I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.’ Your heart skips and thumps hard as he comes closer, and you clasp your hands tight in your lap. The tatted-up paramedic with the warm honey-brown eyes and the wolfish flashing grin may be memorable, but a squirm of self-consciousness races through you as you consider how unmemorable you are in comparison. Not that you can blame him, considering how many people he likely interacts with every day.

His eyes remain fixed on the man at your side as he lopes your way, and you lick at your bottom lip as he comes close enough to see the glint of silver in his ears and beneath his nose. “Hey, Mr. J,” he says casually, and you glance at the man sitting beside you, who’s still watching him approach blankly without acknowledgment. When your eyes meet honey brown again, a corner of his lips crooks up in a fond grin. “Well, hello there.” He draws the words out with a hint of teasing, and a smile blooms automatically on your face. “Been out moshing in any more flower dresses lately?” He adds as he closes the distance quickly, and you feel your self-consciousness melt into effusive warmth knowing he remembers you.

“I only mosh for Holy Roller,” you say, and his grin widens before his attention turns back to the man at your side. The paramedic drops to one knee before him, a forearm braced against his other thigh. With his face now close enough, the old man’s watery eyes light in recognition.

“Ed!” he exclaims in a delighted rasp, even more enthusiastic than when he’d greeted you. You turn curious eyes to the curly-haired man in front of you, wondering if that’s actually his real name or if it’s just one bestowed upon him like ‘Ruth’ had been to you.

Unphased, ‘Ed’ repeats his earlier greeting. “Hey, Mr. Jenkins.” He maintains that same warm friendly tone, though it seems more careful than the one he used with you and Josie. “How you doin’ lately? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Mr. Jenkins sighs dramatically, the deep, weary sigh of the elderly. “Ah, Ed. Ya know, it’s my hips,” he says, shaking his head as if it’s a shame. “Dang things are always givin’ me issues. Don’t get old if you can avoid it.”

The paramedic’s lips quirk sympathetically. “I’ll try not to, Mr. J,” he says obligingly. “You still doin’ bingo at the VA on Thursday nights?”

As Mr. Jenkins leans eagerly forward to tell him all about it, you watch the paramedic slip his pale fingers around the paper-thin skin of the man’s wrist, nodding absently as he looks up at the sky. When he checks his watch, you realize he’s taking the man’s pulse.

Subtly, as Mr. Jenkins happily prattles on, the paramedic flashes a tiny flashlight to assess his pupillary response before checking the rest of his vitals, the musical cadence of his answers acting as a distraction while he evaluates him. Your eyes skate over the paramedic’s face— his soft nose, his wide brown eyes, his pink lips, and his strong jaw framed by frizzy curls that hang past his collar. As you do, you feel a surge of admiration for his manner, but you’re not quite sure what about it has you impressed.

As he replaces the flashlight pen in his pouch, the old man looks between you. “Have you met my Ruthie?” When honey brown flashes to you quickly, you shake your head minutely, staring at him and hoping he gets the hint.

After a brief pause, the paramedic finally replies, “Can’t say I have.” Your shoulders drop in relief that he’d caught on.

Mr. Jenkins pats your bare knee with his shaky hand right below the hem of your pencil skirt. Your mouth tightens in a bashful smile as he gushes, “Oh, she’s a good girl. A real good girl. You’d be lucky to find a girl like this, Ed.”

It’s both charming and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of this old man’s unwarranted affection, and you feel your cheeks heat with a fierce flush. Beyond your control, your eyes dart to the man across from you to find him smiling— closed-lipped and crooked, so a dimple pops on one cheek. “She sure seems like it, Mr. Jenkins,” the paramedic answers, and your cheeks positively burn.

Mr. Jenkins continues on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, and you avert your eyes to the safety of your lap. It doesn’t offer much of a reprieve, however, as you can’t escape how the sweet, confused old man still has your knee in a vice grip and the guy in front of you is staring right through you with those honey-brown eyes. With an air of authority, Mr. Jenkins announces, “You outta take my Ruthie to the drive-in. They show the double features on Wednesdays, more bang for your buck. And treat ‘er to a milkshake; she loves a good black and white.” He jabs a shaky finger toward the paramedic to punctuate how serious he is. “Ya hear me, Ed?”

Oh, my gosh. It was one thing to compliment you, but setting you up with a stranger has edged this conversation past uncomfortable and into nearly mortifying. Your stomach flutters with discomfort and nerves at the idea.

“I hear you, Mr. J,” you hear him answer, and when you look up, he seems to be holding back laughter; his eyes are crinkled, lips fighting to stay pursed when they want to smile, and his voice is dripping warmth. As he stands, stretching his back, his piercing eyes return to you. “Hey, Ruth,” he says neutrally, “would you help me with this?” He tips his head toward the ambulance and you nod quickly, hastening to follow.

As you fall into step beside him, you become acutely aware of your closeness— the sway of his narrow hips, the jangle of his belt and med-pack, the thump of his heavy boots against the concrete, the faint scent of tobacco and spice that clings to his black collared shirt. Your eyes dart quickly to the curtain of hair hanging by his collar, how soft the curls look from this distance. You turn your chin toward him but keep your eyes on the ambulance. “He’s been there since before eight this morning,” you say quietly, “in the park. I saw him on my way to work. When I came out for my lunch break, he was just standing under a tree.”

You feel the heat of the paramedic’s bare forearm radiate against your elbow as he ducks closer, his voice still musical even in a murmur. “So, what, you thought you’d check on him?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms as you prickle with self-consciousness. The motion has your elbow bumping against his skin, and the heat of it flashes like a burn. “It just didn’t seem right to leave without checking if he was okay. He was confused; he asked me if we were going to the cleaners.” You glance at him, and he’s still ducked to hear you as you speak softly; his brown eyes are so close that you can see the varied shades of brown in them, like the rings of a cedar tree. You swallow thickly. “I think he thinks I’m his daughter.”

“You did the right thing,” he replies, his voice gentle and tinged with fondness. “Mr. J is well-known around here. Sweet guy, harmless. He’s got dementia.”

Your eyes soften as you blink at him, compassion welling up as he speaks about the old man with such kindness. He straightens suddenly, and you realize that you’ve reached the side of the ambulance.

He tugs open the door and calls to his partner, who peers over from the driver’s seat. “Hey, can you call Jimmy, tell him his dad’s in Washington Square Park?”

“Sure thing,” comes the answer, though you can’t really see him.

The paramedic closes the door again, and when he leans back against it, crossing his arms casually and propping a boot against the metal frame, you realize asking you to help him with something was just pretense. For some reason, that makes you glow with that same effusive warmth you’d felt when you first heard him address you again, brown eyes alight with his tease about mosh pits.

“So,” he says, lips quirking in a slanted grin, “I take it your name’s not Ruth.”

You chuckle through your answer. “No, not Ruth.” You scrape your two front teeth against your lip before adding, “It’s y/n.”

He nods, and his curls sway with it. The grin grows fractionally. “I’m Eddie.”

“Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean,” you add quickly, and your hand wants to stick out to shake his, but a bigger part of you cringes at the impulse. You keep it stubbornly stuck to your side.

“Yeah, you too. Officially,” he says warmly.

A door slams again as his partner gets out of the truck, crossing by the front bumper. He’s tall and a little broader than Eddie— knowing his name has your stomach fluttering with warmth— and his hair is shorter but no less impressive, with brown waves that bob against his forehead as he heads over to Mr. Jenkins. “Steve!” You hear the old man exclaim behind you, and your eyes find honey brown as if by instinct. You exchange a fond grin with Eddie at Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting, marveling at how affection curls behind your sternum for this man who was such a short time ago a total stranger. Mr. Jenkins, that is.

Of course.

And soon, a stranger again he will become, you realize as Eddie pushes off from the door, jamming his hands in the pockets of his black pants. “Thanks for staying with him. And calling it in. Most people wouldn’t have done that,” he tells you, and you blush with pleasure at the genuineness you hear.

“It was no problem,” you say. For a moment you just stand there, feeling awkwardness creep up. You shift your weight to one hip and twist your heel; when the gravel grinds loudly underfoot, you stop, suppressing a wince. You’re desperate to move on, so you blurt, “I’d better get back to work.” You pause, adding, “Will he be okay?”

“He’ll be fine.” Eddie sounds so entirely assured of the fact that you believe him immediately, nodding with relief. He squints at you, jerking his chin to look at you sideways, and his dark hair sways as he does. “Hey. You didn’t have lunch, did you?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He pulls one hand from his pocket to wave absently in the air. “You said you left to go get lunch but checked on Mr. J instead, right? So you didn’t get to eat.”

You fumble to reply, but he’s already spinning, pulling open the door to the ambulance and hauling himself up. He bends over the seat, black pants pulling taught over his thighs and butt, and you quickly look away.

His voice comes muffled at first. “Here—” There’s the heavy sound of his boots hitting asphalt and then a crinkly rectangle is being waved at you. “ —have a protein bar,” he finishes, brandishing it toward you.

Your brows crinkle. “Oh, I’m really okay—”

He cuts you off, kindly but firmly. “I insist.”

You take it from him gingerly. It’s a Cliff bar— peanut butter and chocolate. You meet wide honey-brown with a thankful smile. “This isn’t your lunch, is it?” you tease.

Eddie scoffs, waving you off. “Of course not,” he says, rotating around you and hopping up onto the curb, but the twinkle in his eyes and the dimple of his cheek leave you without confidence.

There’s the impulse to question him further, but he doesn’t give you the chance; he starts walking backwards toward the bench with meandering, though purposeful, steps. “See you around,” he says, saluting you with two fingers tipped against his temple. You wave mutely, and he flashes one last parting grin before turning away.

You stand motionless for a moment, staring at his back until you catch sight of his partner throwing you a curious glance. That snaps you out of it, and you hurry to the crosswalk.

Yet before you tug open that heavy glass door, you can’t help but glance back one more time. Between the flashes of passing cars, you see Eddie: he’s sitting next to Mr. Jenkins on the bench, legs spread wide and elbows resting on his knees, bobbing his head with big swings of his dark curls as the man shows him his crossword.

This time, when the cold air blasts you in the face, you stay warm.

“You really do like black and white, huh?”

Your eyes dart up to catch brown. “Hm?”

Your date folds his hands against the tablecloth, twining his fingers together. His lips twitch up into a crooked grin as he motions with his chin. “You’re wearing a black blouse and a white skirt. Last time we went out, you were wearing a black dress and a white cardigan.”

You blink, brows darting up. “Oh!” you say, glancing down at yourself. He is indeed correct— you’re wearing the same colors you had on your first date with him, entirely by coincidence. He leans back as if expecting you to be impressed that he’d noticed, and you smile, brightening your voice even further. “That’s right!” you say, tipping your head and lightly teasing him. “Well, aren’t you observant?”

He preens under your attention. “I try to be,” he says smoothly. “It pays to be observant in my line of work.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. “Speaking of, how go things on the fifth floor? I rarely venture down there.”

“Oh, you know…” He keeps up the flirtatious banter, mirroring your position: broad hand cradling his strong chin, elbow planted on the table. “Just convinced Synegen to sign over all their marketing needs. No biggie. All in a day’s work for us fifth-floorers.” His brown eyes twinkle. “Maybe you’ll have reason to come down more often now.”

Daintily, you sip your wine, which burns pleasantly warm down your throat as your eyes rake over his features: long, alkaline nose, square jaw, dreamy brown eyes, and a neat, high fade. “Maybe I shall, Matt,” you smolder, and his grin widens.

This is your second date with fifth-floor Matt— as Josie refers to him since you’d met him in the elevator of your office building— and it’s going quite well if you do say so yourself. Typically, you wouldn’t agree to a date with a guy you’d just met, but Matt’s boldness had a certain charm about it when he’d caught the elevator door to keep it from closing and hit you with that white smile and a proposition of dinner. And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was handsome and clearly built even under the slacks and dress shirt.

As he’d pointed out, you’d worn black and white on your first date but had felt slightly underdressed at the swanky place he’d whisked you away to. You hadn’t been expecting all the bells and whistles, though to your relief, he’d seemed pleased to have impressed you rather than disappointed. The conversation had flowed well between you, and he hadn’t been too forward at the end of the night, leaving you with a pleasant impression. When he’d called to ask you out again— of course within the permissible four to seven days post-date, and no sooner— you hadn’t had any reason to say no, which is why you find yourself at yet another swanky restaurant, Italian on this occasion. And you’re dressed a little more formally this time: black silk blouse, tight white skirt, and Josie’s tall black strappy things that she affectionately calls her ‘stripper heels.’

They look great, but your ankles are aching like a bitch, and you haven’t even gotten your food yet.

“And how are things going for my favorite copyeditor?” Matt asks, taking a sip of his drink, and you blush lightly under his attention.

“Well…” you draw out the word, letting the music and the clinking of glasses around you fill the silence. “Did I tell you about Doris?” He shakes his head, and you’re just about to launch into the story of your accident-prone coworker’s latest kerfuffle when the waiter materializes at your elbow, holding two gleaming white plates.

“Tortellini?” he cuts in smoothly, and you smile up at him as he places it down in front of you. “Scallops?” he confirms with Matt, who immediately picks up his utensils to dig in as you continue your story.

You poke around at your food as you talk about Doris’ misfortune, and Matt nods and emotes appropriately throughout your recollections. “—I don’t know how she manages to get herself into all of these situations, the poor woman.” You shake your head sympathetically, taking a bite of tortellini. It’s wonderfully cheesy with a delicate sauce, and your brows jerk in pleasant surprise as the flavor bursts on your tongue. You chew and swallow quickly to exclaim, “Wow! This is really good.”

Matt is nodding eagerly, threading his finger between the collar of his shirt and his throat, pulling at it absently. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s delicious. This place is amazing. You know, I actually—”

He breaks off in a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. “Sorry,” he says, and you smile reassuringly. “I was saying that—” His voice weakens suddenly, and as he clears his throat roughly, your brow tightens in concern.

“Are you okay?” you ask, putting down your fork upon seeing how he tugs again at his collar.

“I’m totally fine,” he assures you, “just have a tickle in my throat.”

Despite his quick hand-waving to dismiss your concern, it doesn’t alleviate that prickle of foreboding you feel building as your eyes scan his face, which looks suddenly more flushed than it did a moment ago. “Are you allergic to anything?”

Matt tips his head, gesturing with his fork and knife. “Well, yeah,” he admits, “but not to this.” He sounds perfectly confident in his assertion, but it doesn’t mollify you. Above his thick fingers, which are still plucking at his collar, pink splotches crawl up his neck.

The foreboding builds insistently, and you know he can detect the new edge of urgency in your voice. “Do you have an EpiPen?”

Somehow, almost inexplicably, Matt still doesn’t look worried. He scoffs, shaking his head even as he concedes, “Yeah, I have one, but I never carry it around with me. Look, I know what not to eat, y/n. I’m not a child—”

You’re not listening because you’re already on the phone with 911.

“I think my date is having an allergic reaction. His throat is itchy, he’s coughing and clearing his throat, and he’s getting flushed.” You glance at him to see his eyes narrowed at you and his mouth open in indignance. “And his lips are swelling,” you add.

Matt pokes at his lips, and you look away as the operator assures you EMS is on their way to the restaurant. “Should I stay on the line?” you ask, gaze darting as you listen to his instruction, even while Matt groans and rolls his eyes.

“You’re being dramatic,” he’s saying, but you ignore him, lowering the phone without hanging up.

“He suggested some fresh air would help. Come on.”

Despite his lunking frame, you’re hauling him out to the sidewalk in your strappy heels with a determination he seems reluctant to truly resist. He could easily break out of your hold, but he lets you manhandle him out into the slight chill of this early September night. You undo the top three buttons of his shirt to loosen the pressure on his neck, working around your phone, which is still clutched in one hand. You suppress a huff at his salacious smile. “I mean,” he chuckles, “if you just wanted to get me out of my clothes, honey, you didn’t have to do all this.”

You shake your head, holding the phone up to your ear. “Yeah, I’m still here,” you say to the operator, “we’re outside now. He doesn’t seem to be any worse.”

Matt’s shoulders sag as he rolls his head, coughing lightly through his words. “I’m not gonna get worse because there’s nothing wrong with me.” He lifts his arms and lets them slap against his thighs, exasperated. “This is such a waste of time—”

The white and red ambulance turns the corner, and you step around your date to flag them down. “They’re here,” you say breathlessly to the operator. “Okay, I’m gonna hang up.”

The vehicle slows to a stop in front of you, and you step back from the curb as both doors open. They close one after another, like the strike of lightning and the boom of thunder following it. The boom of thunder crosses around the front of the bumper, eyes locked on you. And he’s got a beautiful head of hair— thick, luscious brown locks, expertly messy.

Your heart leaps as you recognize him, hearing Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting echoing in your ear. Because if he’s the boom of thunder, then maybe the lightning strike is—

“I shoulda known you’d be here, Trouble.”

You turn toward the voice, heart pounding despite the quizzical scrunching of your nose. Eddie interprets it correctly, his grin brightening his honey-brown eyes as he clarifies, “As I said, you look like an angel, but since we keep runnin’ into each other like this, it’s official. You must be nothing but trouble.”

You flush at the teasing tone of his musical voice, cheeks pinking, and as his grin turns wolfish with delight, you know he’s noticed. Abruptly, he looks away, and you follow his gaze to Matt, whose brows are furrowed lightly. Eddie’s tone loses the teasing quality, though it remains pleasant. “So, what’s goin’ on here, big guy? You think you’re having an allergic reaction?” he asks, pulling out the flashlight from his pack.

“No,” Matt says firmly, though his voice sounds more hoarse now. “She thinks I’m having an allergic reaction. I’ve just got an itchy throat.”

Undeterred, Eddie steps up to him. “Open your mouth,” he instructs calmly, and begrudgingly, Matt complies. His tongue lolls as Eddie peers inside. “What did you eat?”

“It was a pasta dish,” you offer, watching as Steve hovers nearby while Eddie feels along Matt’s throat with gloved hands. “Scallops, prosciutto, peas, um… white wine sauce. I don’t know the rest of the ingredients.”

“Any known allergies?” Steve asks, and everyone looks to Matt for the answer.

“I already told her,” he says with an air of long-suffering, “I do have a food allergy, but not to this—”

Eddie interjects calmly but firmly. “What are you allergic to?”

Matt sighs. “I’m only allergic to shellfish.”

There’s the briefest moment of stunned silence, and then Eddie tips his chin, pinning your date with his dark eyes— still calm, still pleasant, but with an air of unattestable authority. “Sir, you are having an allergic reaction. Hey, Harrington?”

“On it,” comes the immediate reply, and Steve is digging in the med-pack at his hip, guiding Matt to the back of the ambulance. You watch Matt’s eyes dart wildly, though he allows himself to be pushed along in his bafflement, stuttering questions and weak protests as he goes. You recognize the bright orange cap of the EpiPen as Steve pulls open one of the ambulance’s back doors; distantly, you hear him prompting your date, “Hop up here for me, would you?”

You hear a jangle close by, and the sound pulls your eyes from the ambulance to the man still standing at your side. His arms are folded behind his back now, his full lips dimpled in a secret smile. In Josie’s tall heels, your face is closer to his, and you nearly feel the brush of his wild hair against your blouse as he sways closer with his upper body so he can mutter at you with glittering eyes.

“Really?” Eddie says, and the ghost of his breath stirs the hair beside your ear. Your body prickles with heat, stomach fluttering as he straightens again, quirking a brow and looking highly amused. For some reason, you feel called out, raw and exposed, and you cross your arms and narrow your eyes despite the deepening heat in your cheeks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you retort. “I don’t give my dates quizzes on animal classifications during the vetting process.”

“Well,” Eddie lowers his voice, and the timbre makes you shiver, goosebumps prickling your arms. “Maybe you should.”

You scoff. “He’s a marketing genius. I think that makes up for it.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches before his dark eyes widen. Your gaze is drawn to his eyelashes, which are enviably long. “So,” he asks casually, “did you enjoy that protein bar?”

You’re left reeling from the abrupt change of subject, but you place the reference quickly. “Sure,” you say, tipping your head, a little bemused as to why he’s asking. “It was fine.”

Eddie’s brows jerk in exaggerated offense as he claps a hand over his heart. “Just fine? First, you eat my lunch, and now you tell me it was just fine?”

Your mouth falls open in incredulity, face utterly indignant as Eddie grins broadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners at your reaction. In the vehemence of your feeling, you step closer, smacking his arm with a familiarity you aren’t entitled to, though you don’t notice as you protest, “You told me it wasn’t your lunch! What the hell, Eddie?!”

He cowers away from you playfully, dissolving into husky chuckles that are both goofy and undeniably endearing. They settle in your stomach, and you feel your lips curving of their own accord. You can’t deny how good it feels to hear him laugh, and you suddenly want more. “Honestly!” You lean into it, advancing on him as threateningly as you can in a blouse and miniskirt, though you know he sees the mirth dancing in your eyes. He backs up a step, playing into your game as you huff, “You’re so—!”

“I can drive myself to the hospital. I don’t need you!”

The shout cuts you off, and your smile dies abruptly as you and Eddie look toward the source of the disturbance. It’s Matt, your date, scowling as he hops down to the asphalt. He’s arguing with Steve, who pops from behind the ambulance to follow him to the sidewalk.

“Sir—” Matt’s ignoring him, stalking toward you with intent. “I can’t force you, but I really must advise you not to drive yourself.”

Matt whirls on him, pointing a finger in his chest. “I know what you’re trying to do. You just want me to take the ambulance because you’ll get paid more. It’s all a big scam.”

Steve’s brow scrunches in an incredulous wince, and embarrassment curdles in your stomach as you watch Matt’s face transform into smugness. “See?” The triumph in the curl of his smile is entirely undeserved. “Can’t argue with the facts. I’m onto you, buddy.”

Exasperation, embarrassment, and self-consciousness mix potently as you feel the weight of Eddie’s eyes on the back of your head like a physical presence. Impulsively, you blurt, “I’ll just drive you in your car, Matt. Come on.”

Matt shoots Steve one last dirty look as you bustle over to him, crossing your arms as he levels Eddie with the same. “They’re just doing their jobs, Matt,” you say, tone bitten a little short as you lead him to the entrance of the restaurant.

“What’re we going back in there for?” he asks, and you blink at him.

“...We have to pay for our food and get our coats,” you say patiently, trying very hard to remain composed. Matt grumbles but pulls open the door for you, and as you pass through the threshold, you hear one last raspy, musical call follow you.

“See ya, Trouble!”

You hasten toward your table as Matt scowls, questioning you suspiciously. “Hey. Why does he keep calling you that? D’you know that guy?”

You just sigh heavily, plastering on a smile as you flag down your waiter to explain the situation. And as you drive your date to the hospital, only one thought follows you.

Leave it to a crisis to reveal peoples’ true natures.

Truthfully, the unfortunate shellfish incident was a blessing in disguise. After taking Matt to the hospital for further treatment and listening to him gripe on the ride home, you’d waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling he may have stirred within you without a shred of resistance. In recounting the tale to Josie, crowded together on the settee in her one-bedroom walkup with half-drunk Trulys in hand, you’d both reached a consensus on the following conclusion:

That bullet was well and truly dodged.

“Enough about fifth-floor fools,” Josie quips, scootching closer as you sip your bubbly and hissing with eagerness, “I can’t believe it was that same guy again! How many times have you run into him now?”

You hide your smile behind the can. “Three,” you say, keeping your voice carefully neutral. But you can’t fool Josie; she’s known you longer than anyone else, aside from your parents. She’s nearly your sister— you spend half your time sleeping at her apartment on the weekends since it’s closer to downtown, and many of the belongings littering the tiny square of her place are yours. Sometimes you feel silly for still living with your parents, but you remind yourself it’s a perfectly reasonable way to save money until you can afford your own place. And you’d move in with Josie, but her apartment is really only meant for one; you end up squeezed into her twin bed or cramped up on the settee whenever you spend a drunken night there, and that's not a permanent solution.

Josie swoons against you. “It’s so romantic,” she gushes, and you squirm at the unexpected sentimentality coming from your raincloud friend. “It’s like fate’s bringing you together.” When she eyes you suddenly, the glint of craziness has you shaking your head before she’s even gotten the words out. “You know, I’m feeling some mashed potatoes. Don’t you want mashed potatoes?” You don’t respond, and she barrels on. “Yeah, I really think you should go, like, chop some potatoes. And then, you know, just accidentally let the knife slip—”

“Josie!”

“What?! Like, don’t cut deep,” she defends, drawing her index in a slanted line across her palm before grinning suggestively. “Just deep enough to need stitches so you can ride him—” she feigns innocence— “sorry, Freudian slip— I meant riiiiiiiiide him in the back of his ambulance—” She bursts into laughter at the horror on your face when she salaciously repeats the same phrase, delighted to have tricked you into thinking it was a mistake the first time.

“Josie!” You snap again, face flooding with heat as she cackles, deriving great pleasure from your embarrassment. “I’m not going to cut my hand open just to hope Eddie shows up. That’s so stupid.”

“Aw,” she pretends to pout, “well, how else are you gonna see him again?”

You scoff, shaking your head, cheeks still tingling with your blush. “Who says I even wanna see him again?” you grumble, turning away from your best friend and chugging your Truly to ward off her response.

But you can’t deny that meeting Eddie three times did, in some way, feel… maybe not like fate, but like more than a coincidence. And in the days following your failed date with Matt, you find your thoughts drifting to that musical voice, those honey-brown eyes, the brush of your elbow against his hot skin, and the way his plush lips formed the letters of the nickname he’d given you:

‘Trouble.’

You’d eagerly waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling you’d had for Matt, but suddenly, there's a paramedic-shaped absence in your life that you feel every time you walk from the parking lot to your office building and glance across the street, eyes lingering on that bench beneath the cherry trees.

After a week, you acknowledge it, accept it, and allow yourself to secretly indulge in the crush you’d formed on the heavy-metal knockoff with the septum piercing and the most endearing laugh you’d ever heard. It lingers in the back of your mind, prompting you to slow the roll of your shopping cart in the bakery aisle of Trader Joe’s and pause beside the package of adorably-named Peanut Butter Brookies. As you pick it up, examining the half-peanut butter cookie half-brownies, you can't help but think of the protein bar with the same flavor.

It's silly. It's inane. It's entirely over the top, and you’d absolutely die of embarrassment if Josie found out. But before you can let yourself buckle with self-consciousness, you quickly add the package of baked goods to your cart and roll on. And on Monday morning, you slip it into your laptop bag.

A thank-you gift for a lunch sacrificed, carried around just in case.

Monday bleeds into Friday, and still, the brownies remain ungifted, perfectly intact inside their hard plastic casing. You check the expiration date, which wasn’t for another two weeks, and they taunt you on your parents’ counter, mocking your whimsy. Still, when your dad comes sniffing curiously around, you feel a spike of instant dismay and snatch them before he can break the seal. He looks entirely baffled as you carry them protectively up to your room.

“Wha—” You ignore his confusion as you tramp up the steps, depositing the brookies back in your bag. You sigh, a sound of long-suffering exasperation with yourself and your own inanity. One more week, you resolve. If I don’t see him this week, I’m forgetting all about this.

And it appears, as Friday rolls around again, that you would need to abandon your silly crush on the paramedic you’d bumped into thrice in three months. Your laptop bag thumps against your thigh as you push open the heavy glass doors of your office building, emerging into the brisk chill of late September, tempered by the golden light of the deepening sun. You allow yourself to sulk, indulging in your disappointment until you reach the glittering blue paint of your Honda Civic. Fate is a fickle mistress. You sigh as you unlock the door and flump into the driver’s seat, depositing your laptop bag onto the floor on the other side of the console. You allow yourself an ironic smile, shaking your head at the notion of fate as you start the car and idle as you tap the phone icon on the screen, intending to call Josie to discuss your plans for the weekend.

Yet when you hit it, it doesn’t pull up your contacts as expected. Instead, it pulls up the list of Bluetooth devices it remembers, and you scrunch your nose at the words ‘y/n’s iPhone’ on the screen, wondering why it wouldn't just connect automatically. But when you tap it, waiting impatiently until the request times out, you realize what the problem is.

You must have left your phone in your cubicle.

Another sigh, this one longer and far more exasperated at the thought of trekking all the way back to the office after a long work day. You briefly consider just going home without your phone, but it’s Friday, and that would mean languishing without it for the entire weekend. A momentary inconvenience now is not worth the giant inconvenience that would be.

You groan as you pull your laptop bag back into your lap, petulantly pulling the strap over your head as you lock your car and begin the walk back to the office.

All looks the same as it had ten minutes before— the golden sun is still glinting off the windows you wish your cubicle faced, and the cherry trees are still swaying gently across the street.

The only thing not the same is the ambulance sitting stationary against the curb across from those heavy glass doors.

Your footsteps falter in surprise for only a moment before incredulous giddiness has your heart racing. There’s no fucking way, you think, stamping down on your excitement as you maintain outward composure, walking calmly up to your office building despite the fluttering you feel inside. You even whisper temperance as you pull open the door, wincing as that typical blast of cold air hits you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you tell yourself as the clacking of your heels echoes hollowly in the lobby. “There’s no such thing as fate—”

The elevator dings cheerily, and the stretcher emerges first, revealing a pair of familiar leopard-printed flats and the rich darkness of your coworker Doris’ pudgy legs. You stop, eyes going wide as her torso, chest, neck, and head are slowly revealed. Her half-moon glasses are slightly askew, the crystal chain clinking against the heavy earrings dragging down her drooping earlobes as she’s maneuvered gently into the lobby.

Your mutterings about fate are abandoned immediately as you rush with concern. “Doris!” you exclaim in dismay. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?”

She draws steadily closer as you stand in the middle of the lobby, her stretcher wheeled by medical personnel. You don’t look at them, eyes locked on your coworker as she grimaces at you. You know Doris is accident-prone, but this is beyond a little coffee pot mishap. Your chest tightens with nervousness at the pain on her face. She grunts, humphing, “Tripped and broke my damn ankle.” She shakes her head as if with disgust. “I told Doug I could’ve made it down myself, but he insisted on calling the ambulance.” She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is humiliating.”

Your brow crinkles with sympathy, voice going gentle with reassurance. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Doris,” you say, looking at her encouragingly as she slants a glance in your direction.

She enunciates each word very deliberately, snapping, “I broke my ankle tripping on a damn pencil, y/n.”

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, though the laugh builds up in your chest, wanting to burst out. In your defense, because of the potent combination of Doris’ accident-prone nature, her delivery of that line, and, truthfully, the fact that you can’t help but imagine what it looked like when she tripped over a pencil. Who trips over a pencil?!

It’s not funny. It’s NOT funny.

With the barest shred of merciful dignity, you manage to maintain your composure. “I’m sorry, Doris,” is all you can manage, and you rotate as she’s rolled even with you to keep facing her. The older woman humphs as she passes, and your eyes dart to the back of the large paramedic’s head, running over the bristles of his short hair as he diverts to the wall to hit the switch that automatically opens the door for wheelchairs.

You relax your mouth and let the smile grow as you turn away from Doris, but your heart leaps into your throat as you stop short just an inch from colliding with the second paramedic, who is standing far too close for comfort. Your heart leaps into your throat but drops into your ass as you register the honey-brown of his eyes, the wild curls that frame his pale face, and the scent of smoke and spice as Eddie towers over you.

You freeze, and your belly flutters wildly as his full lips split with a grin. “Hey there, Trouble,” he says, and for a moment, all you can do is blink at him mutely until your brain connects with your mouth.

“Eddie!” you exclaim, and in your surprise, you don’t temper your reaction to seeing him. You beam brightly, eyes wide with delight as he falls back on his heels, jamming his hands in his pockets. His expression melts into pleasure at the sound of his name so keen in your mouth.

“You know,” he teases, voice pitched a little lower than usual, “you didn’t have to plant that pencil if you wanted to see me again.”

But the implication of his teasing words and his tone skates right over your head because you’re already digging in your laptop bag, singularly focused on the unexpected rush of being able to deliver your gift. “I wanted to give you this—” you pull out the package with an air of triumph, “to thank you for, well… everything with Matt, I guess, but also for the protein bar. I figured you like peanut butter and chocolate.”

You thrust the brookies toward him, and Eddie takes the package gingerly, staring down at it. You watch a couple of microexpressions dart across his face, too quick to decipher, and then he’s crooking a smile at you. “Thanks,” he says, “that’s really cool of you.”

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth, and as Eddie stares at you for a moment, you suddenly become aware that he might think it’s weird you’ve been carting around a container of food, hoping to run into him. Before you can stumble too far down that rabbit hole, Eddie redirects you, asking casually, “So, how’s Shellfish doin’? Holding up okay now?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Your honest answer comes quick and unabashed. “There was no third date.”

There’s a flicker of something behind Eddie’s eyes, and then it’s gone. He leans in, cupping one hand to the side of his mouth as if speaking in confidence. “Y’ask me, I think you dodged a bullet. A man who doesn’t know his mollusks is not a good catch.”

You chuckle at the play on words, and Eddie seems tickled that you’d caught on quickly. A dimple emerges on his cheek, and you feel that low fluttering again. “He was a little too macho for me anyway,” you say dismissively, shrugging and hoping he gets the message that you couldn’t care less about Matt. “He had a big ego, and I didn’t like the way he talked to Steve. It’s like he had to be the big man on campus.”

Eddie snorts, a little sardonic as he replies, “Well, maybe he should date my ex. She loves that tough guy shi—” he glances at you quickly, seeming a little embarrassed of his almost slip-up. “—stuff. She called me a glorified nurse as if that’s an insult.”

You come alive with warmth, choosing to take that to mean Eddie is single. And not only to mean that he’s single, but that he wants you to know he is, now that you said you’re single. That giddiness is returning, filling you up until you might burst; impulsively, riding that high, you say, “Can’t say I agree. Personally, I like a man who has a nurturing side.”

You don’t know where the hell that sudden boldness came from, and you rush with shyness almost immediately afterward as you see Eddie’s brows jerk. For the briefest moment, he looks taken aback, and then he’s beaming that eye-crinkling smile. It’s almost manic, brighter than any you’ve seen on him yet, and it’s utterly beautiful.

“Munson!”

Eddie startles at the sharp, impatient shout from outside, and you realize that it must be his partner calling him. Eddie stutters into action, fumbling through an apology as he jerks toward the doors with your gift rattling in his hand. “No, it’s fine,” you assure him, and when he glances back at you one more time before tugging open the heavy glass, you bite your lip, fluttering when you see the pink on his cheeks.

You watch him through the glass as he jogs over to the ambulance, his long curls bouncing as he disappears from your view. Part of you— a big part of you— is resisting the sibilant whisper that it would be awkward to follow him, and you’re just about to do it when the elevator dings again. You turn toward it automatically, meeting the panicked eyes of your office’s youngest intern, Carrie.

She seems surprised to see you, and her mousy nose quivers as her eyes widen. “You’re back?” she squeaks, rushing toward you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously, “I forgot my phone—”

She clutches your arms, quivering with desperation. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I was hoping to catch you in the parking lot—” You’re alarmed to see the sheen in her eyes, the wobble of her lip. “I really need your help.”

Immediately, your hand finds her shoulder, concern welling up to replace all else. “Look, Carrie, it’s okay,” you say, guiding her back to the elevator. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

By the time she’d wavered through her explanation, and you’d helped her fix the “crisis”— a simple jam in the new Xerox made unreasonably urgent by your boss’ exaggerated threat that if anyone broke the expensive copier, they’d be paying for it out of their earnings— you return to the lobby to find the street conspicuously lacking in one unmistakeable red and white vehicle.

The walk back to the parking lot— plus one phone and minus a package of baked goods— is dull and lackluster. Disappointment swoops in your gut as your foolish hope that maybe you’d catch the ambulance down the block is dashed when you reach your car with no such sightings. And you can’t even curse fate because you’ve gotten your wish.

Fickle as ever, she’d delivered Eddie to you so you could return his kindness as you’d hoped. But she’d ignored the secret yearning of your heart, leaving you at the mercy of her whims.

And she wouldn’t oblige you again without a cost.

It’s the burst of an impact you couldn’t possibly brace for. There’s the squeal of brakes and then the sickening crunch of metal. Powder in your mouth as you gasp. A rain of shattered glass. And then ringing, deafening silence.

In the stillness, the moments replay over and over, winding through your mind like a snake chasing its tail, each bone of its spine a single, disjointed thought.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

Your mother forgot the cranberries.

You were driving home from the store.

You stopped at the corner of Macopin and Hamberg Turnpike.

Two roads feed into one; the leftmost has the right of way.

There’s a cop car waiting at the left fork.

He waved you on.

You didn’t see the box truck coming around the corner.

He waved you on.

So you went.

The ringing, deafening silence dissolves slowly into sounds— the blare of a police siren, the hissing of a radiator. You turn your head slowly and glance at the passenger seat for your phone, and your stomach lurches at what’s past it: the crumpled remains of the passenger-side door where your vehicle is pinned against the guardrail, and beyond, the sea of trees it’s protecting you from.

There are tiny clatters of glass as you shift restlessly, heart pumping frantically as the shock begins to wear off and the adrenaline kicks in. Right outside your window, the hood of the box truck is bent and warped, and if you were to reach out your shattered window, you could run your palm along the warm metal. The reality then sets in: you’d been hit by a box truck and pinned against the guardrail.

You’re lucky to be alive.

A voice swims, echoing in your ears. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

You try to blink the daze away, to break free of the two thoughts the fractured bones of the snake have transformed into. Thank God I was driving dad’s Suburban. If I’d been in my car…. You desperately do not want to finish that sentence.

You whimper with effort, and the voice returns more urgently. “Ma’am. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” you call weakly.

The voice comes again. “Are you hurt?”

“I—” You move slowly, shifting your body minutely. A bend of your elbow. A shrug of your shoulder. Something along your collarbone aches like a burn. “I don’t know,” you reply honestly, and your voice wavers with the realization. Slowly, other sensations emerge: you discern sharp soreness in your arm. You wince, and that tightening of your forehead stings. You can’t see your legs; they’re concealed beneath the airbag, and your heart pumps harder.

Suddenly, you’re holding your breath. You’re afraid to shift your legs, afraid to feel a rush of pain, or worse, to try to move them and feel nothing at all.

You turn your head fractionally, eyes straining to see out the shattered window, but the box truck is in the way. “EMS is on their way, ma’am. We’re gonna get you out of here.” You realize then that the voice must belong to the cop.

“Thank you.” You feel your eyes rush with tears. “Is… is the other guy…?”

“He’s okay,” the cop answers, and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief, letting it puff out your cheeks.

“Okay,” you answer in a small voice, and there is no reply.

As you wait for EMS to arrive, you concentrate on doing everything you can to reduce your panic, knowing that the worst thing you can do is allow yourself to freak out. You take slow, deep breaths, resisting the urge to suck in air greedily even as your lungs protest. By degrees, very gradually, the frantic pumping of your heart begins to slow, and the airbag at your steering wheel starts to deflate. And by the time it’s sagging flat against the wheel, you hear the crunch of nearby tires over grass and gravel and see a long flash of red beyond the vehicle wedged against your own. That must be the firetruck. As your body calms, experimentally, you begin to test out some movements, starting with the low-risk ones. Slowly, you bend your elbows until your hands are in front of your face and examine your fingers and arms. There’s a quickly-forming contusion swelling on your left forearm, and anxiety spikes once again until you run your fingers over it. It hurts, but not that badly, and you breathe a sigh of relief that it doesn’t seem to be broken. You feel along your face blindly, and there’s some stinging on your forehead and left cheek, but otherwise, there is no pain. Without moving your head, you unbuckle yourself and pull down the neckline of your sweater. As you feel around, you discover that the pain travels diagonally across your collarbone, and your fingers don’t come away with blood. Logically, the sting on your chest is likely just a burn from the seatbelt.

Higher-risk movements come next. You shift so, so slowly, resolving to stop as soon as you encounter any pain. But you turn your head, and there is none; you wiggle your toes, and they move. You sway your hips, and they obey, and when you lean forward toward the steering wheel, you meet no resistance.

Somehow, you think you’re okay. You don’t anticipate the rush of emotion the realization conjures, and a tear slips to cut through the airbag powder on your cheek.

You hear footsteps and voices approaching then, but still, all you can really see is the bent-up hood of the box truck. Slowly, the sounds discern themselves into words. And it’s a revelation that pulls another tear from your eyes when you realize one voice is familiar.

He’s saying, “The cop said it’s a woman. She’s lucid—”

Your voice comes out small but sweet with melty hope. “Eddie?”

The voice ceases immediately, and the silence is like a chasm. And then you hear your name rasped in that musical timbre. “...y/n?”

You breathe a laugh, shaky with relief. “Yeah,” you croak. “It’s me.” Instantly, the lingering stormclouds— the apprehension, the shame, the acrid, biting fear— all disperse as you picture a bright smile and honey-brown eyes, leaving behind only the tracks of dew on your cheek and the singular belief that now, everything will be okay.

“Harrington,” Eddie barks, “tell those fuckers to hurry up and get this truck out of the goddamn way.”

Every ounce of tension you’d been relieved of is tightening that musical voice now as it goes impossibly harsh. “Hey!” The sudden bite of his shout is shocking. “Let’s go! What the fuck is taking so long?”

A sliver of Eddie peeks at the edge of the window, and his voice gentles again. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?”

“No, I think I’m okay,” you say, shaking your head.

Some grit, some tight urgency returns as he says, “No, don’t do that. Don’t move your head. Just stay still. Stay right there, okay? We’re gonna get you out.”

As bodies flit around in the background, you stare at the sliver of Eddie’s face— the paleness of his skin, the dark curtain of his hair, the glint of silver in his earlobe— waiting for the moment you can see his eyes again. You stare as uniformed men crowd around the truck, and you stare until it begins to roll away, pushed by their combined effort. And as soon as there’s enough room, Eddie is shuffling sideways until his face fills the window, honey-brown eyes wide and just as breathtaking as you remembered.

Before either of you can speak, Eddie is urged bodily out of the way to make room for the firefighters, who try to open the door only to find it stuck. One of them brings over a corded device held two-handed while the other passes you a scratchy orange blanket through the opening of your window. “We need to remove the door,” he tells you. “Hold this up to protect yourself.”

From behind the curtain of orange, you listen to them slowly and meticulously peel away the door of your father’s destroyed car. Eventually, after some long minutes, the shadow beyond the blanket falls away, and you hear the thump of heavy metal hitting the grass. And when hands pull the blanket away, the reveal of dark curls, lanky limbs, and a familiar handsome face fills you with a sense of awe that any magician would envy.

Ta-da.

“Hey, Trouble.” Eddie’s voice is gentle but hoarse, and he’s smiling, but it’s a little tight. You think his face looks pale as he looks up at you; you’re a few inches taller than him where he’s standing on the ground. His eyes rove over you restlessly. “How're you feelin’?”

“I’m okay, I think,” you say again as Steve comes to stand beside Eddie, holding a neck brace. “I don’t think I need that,” you add. “I feel fine.” You turn your head to demonstrate, and Eddie instantly scowls.

“Look—”

Steve cuts in smoothly. “Does anything hurt? Anything feel numb?”

You shake your head, stilling your movement when Eddie jerks forward, jaw clenched tight. “Just my arm hurts, but I don’t feel numb.” You show them the contusion on your left arm, which looks no worse than it did earlier.

You can see that Eddie is still doubtful, but Steve walks you through basic checks. “Wiggle your toes for me.” “Try to move your foot up.” “Now the other one.” “Bend forward.” You follow his instructions easily, and in the end, he shifts back, conceding that you are, indeed, likely unharmed— at least in any crucial way.

Eddie abruptly hoists himself onto the kickplate, planting his feet and filling the space where the door used to be. His closeness is sudden, and your eyes dart over everything— the metal of his belt buckle that’s now even with your bent elbow, the black on black on black of his paramedic uniform, the neck of his collared shirt that pulls further open to reveal more pale skin as he reaches for you. And then he’s everywhere, bending forward until his curls are brushing your cheek and his smoke and spice is in your nose and your stomach is fluttering so wildly you feel you might fly away.

“Hold onto me,” he mutters, and his voice is so close— low and musical and hoarsened by something that sticks in his throat— that your breath catches. His hand wedges between your legs and the seat, and gingerly, you wrap your arms around his neck and lift your knees so he can slide his arm underneath them. When his other arm comes across your back, muscles flexing to test your weight, you realize that he means to pick you up.

“I can just jump down, you know,” you say, and the wheezy chuckle he huffs into your hair is half-amused and half-incredulous.

“See,” Eddie says, and you feel him shift, testing his balance as his arms tighten around you, “this is why I call you Trouble.” The teasing warmth of his voice brings a flush to your cheeks, and instinctively, you duck your head against his shoulder. When you do, and your lips skim the column of Eddie’s throat, you feel the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. “Hold tight, okay?”

You tighten your arms obligingly and nod, and as the plump of your lips brushes the warmth of Eddie’s skin, he lifts you out of the broken skeleton of your crushed vehicle.

There is no time to worry about whether you’re too heavy or if Eddie will drop you because, before you know it, he’s laying you on the nearby stretcher. His hand finds your shoulder and presses you gently, though firmly, flat to the tilted back. Your eyes dart among the personnel that still litter the grass until they catch on the cars driving slowly past, and beyond them, the fated intersection— the nexus of this entire mess.

Suddenly, Steve is at your elbow. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Yes,” Eddie interrupts before you can reply, and your eyes dart between them as Steve shoots him a weird look. But Eddie doesn’t waver. “She’s going.”

“Only if she wants to—”

“She’s going whether she wants to or not,” Eddie interrupts him, nostrils flared and voice a little sharp. “She needs to be evaluated.”

“I wanna go, Steve.” You head off the storm you can sense brewing between them. “I wanna go to the hospital. Can someone just get my phone and my bag?”

“We’ll make sure all your personal belongings are with you, ma’am.” It’s the cop from before, speaking from a short distance away. You nod, glancing at each of the men as Steve and Eddie continue to stare at one another for a tense moment before Steve mutely takes hold of the stretcher’s metal frame. Eddie does the same on your other side, and together, they load you into the ambulance.

It isn’t exactly a shock when Eddie hoists himself up beside you, shutting the back doors with a definitive thunk. His heavy boots clunk along the metal flooring as he flanks you, sitting down on a stool near your elbow, nearly hovering over you like a stone-faced sentinel. It’s odd to see him like this— tense and wound tight, his mouth pressed into a hard line as his eyes dart over your body restlessly, never settling in one place. He’s always been so calm and casual in every encounter you’ve had with him, and you’d figured that's just what he was always like. You think of how he’d felt carefully along Josie’s nose, occasionally glancing toward the stage as Spiritbox played one of their best songs. How he’d seemed friendly and warm though also detached.

You think, as his lips twist and he rips open the zipper of his med pack, that Eddie is not detached right now. And that thought makes you go warm with its implications.

As the ambulance rumbles to life, Eddie pulls out a small cylindrical object and sets it down on a tray. He pulls on rubber gloves, roughly tugging them down his hands before firmly taking your wrist, fingertips on your pulse point. You watch him wide-eyed as he stares at his watch to count the beats before letting you go.

When his hands find your abdomen, you jolt in surprise, and he pauses for only a moment before pressing down on your belly. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, and the part of you that was flattered thinking about what the loss of his composure might mean flares in exasperation instead.

“I feel fine,” you tell him.

Eddie doesn’t look up or stop his palpations. “Could have internal bleeding,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.

“I am not bleeding internally, Eddie,” you say, trying to remain patient.

“Who’s the medical professional here?” You think he’s trying to joke, but it falls flat between you since his voice is too tense to hold the same musical charm as his normal teasing.

You sigh heavily, enduring until he’s satisfied. “There, see—?” A sudden light blinds your left eye, and you wince, unable to maintain your composure any longer. “Eddie, what the hell?!”

Undeterred, he checks the other eye in the same way, ignoring your squirming. “I’m checking your pupillary response,” he says. “You could have a concussion.”

And with that, he starts talking. And once Eddie starts, he does not stop.

Your arm is throbbing, the skin on your chest stings, and now your head is spinning with each word that comes out of his mouth. “Head trauma,” “loss of coordination,” “muscle laxity,” “cerebral hemorrhage,” “disorientation,” “amnesia,” “vision disturbance,” “hematoma.” Eddie’s rambling goes on until you finally snap his name. “Irritability,” he says, nodding to himself.

You huff. “No, Eddie, I’m not irritable. You’re just giving me a headache.”

That doesn’t make him stop; that makes it worse. In an instant, he’s standing, not realizing that you were exaggerating for effect. His face is hovering over you as he braces his hands on the metal bars caging you into the stretcher, eyes darting as he questions you intently. “Where is the pain? Is it sharp and shooting? Dull and aching? How bad is it, scale of one to ten?”

You suppress a whine because despite your attempt to dissuade him, now he’s blathering on even more, and his gloved thumb is running over your forehead, and you can’t even enjoy it because his touch is stinging the tiny cuts on your skin. And all you want is for him to stop talking, and he won’t. Eddie just won’t shut up—

Impulsively, you fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt, surging up as you yank him down, swallowing his words as you kiss him firmly.

The words stop instantly, but Eddie also stiffens, going completely rigid as you kiss him. And the fact that you can taste him— smoke and spice like Big Red chewing gum— drives home exactly what you’ve done and how unbelievably inappropriate it is.

You release him, flopping back onto the stretcher with your hands curled against your chest as the heat floods your face with such intensity that you fear your flesh might melt from your bones. Hot mortification rushes through you, nearly nauseating as Eddie stares at you, expression unreadable, eyes dark in the dim light of the ambulance and lips downturned just slightly at the corners. Embarrassed isn’t the word for it. The seconds that tick by are nearly unbearable, and if you could, you would sink into the floor, descend to the asphalt and below to the dirt, and then down, down, down through the surface of the earth to melt in its molten core just to escape this moment.

Finally, once you’ve begun to break out into a cold sweat, Eddie says hoarsely, “You sure you aren’t concussed?”

Your brow crumples with dismay, but then he’s cupping your face, his broad palm cradling your cheek, and his hand is warm beneath the latex. And you barely have time to appreciate how those honey-brown eyes soften before Eddie’s ducking to kiss you.

It’s the second time you’ve felt his lips, and now, you don’t panic. You just bloom.

Eddie’s lips are warm and soft and just slightly chapped, enough to make them rasp against yours pleasantly when he shifts his head slightly. You make a little noise against his mouth when he lingers, and your heart melts when you feel him smile. He parts from you just briefly to make it sweeter when he kisses you softly again, and then once more before finally pulling far enough away to gaze at you. He murmurs, and the teasing cadence is back in his musical voice. “Y’didn’t have to get yourself hit by a box truck to see me, you know.”

You feel dazed in the best way. “Yeah?” you say, voice small and delicate and questioning. Eddie smiles, and you lean into his touch as he strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

Your eyes widen hopefully. “So does this mean you’re gonna take me to the drive-in?”

Eddie throws back his head and laughs— not a barking, surprised laugh, or a goofy, husky chuckle, but a rasp of pure relief and delight that has you blooming with pride. You don’t even mind that his hand falls from your cheek to clutch at the railing for support. When he straightens, his curls are wild and beautiful as they frame his face, his honey-brown eyes are twinkling, and that dimple you’re becoming partial to is out for you again.

“Slow your roll, Trouble,” he says fondly. “Let’s get you checked out first, and then we can talk about shakes and a movie.”

The only drive-in movie theatre in the state is half an hour away, and the final showing before they close for the season is next Wednesday, and if that’s not fate, you don’t know what is.

It doesn’t matter that it’s rather a lot colder than it typically is at the very end of November. The inside of Eddie’s refurbished 1979 Chevelle is toasty, and you’re cuddled up under numerous knitted throws you’d gathered from your parents’ house, so the chill of the milkshake on your fingers doesn’t bother you. You set yours in the cupholder beside Eddie’s, strawberry next to chocolate. You nearly double-take when you pick his up and shake it, eyes darting to mischievous honey-brown when you realize it’s already more than half gone. You take a pouty sip, letting the taste of rich chocolate melt and mingle with fruity strawberry in a perfect melding of flavors. Eddie snatches your cup, pursing his lips around your straw and sucking cheekily. The chunky rings that glint on his fingers are unfamiliar but entirely welcome, and so are the battle vest, the green flannel, and the tight jeans ripped at the knees that replace his typical paramedic uniform. Finally being able to see Eddie in his street clothes still hasn’t worn off, and you tingle even as you pretend to glare at him.

“You better not drink all of mine just because you nearly finished yours before the movie’s even started,” you tell him, trying to maintain your glare even though it’s already melting at the charming grin Eddie hits you with.

“Oh, Trouble,” he sighs, eyebrows crinkling in pretend earnestness, and you fight stubbornly against your lips. “I would never drink all of your milkshake. Mr. J would never let me live it down if I did.”

You lose the battle then, plunking his cup back in the cupholder as you grumble through your smile. He replaces your cup smoothly, smacking his lips in an exaggeration of enjoyment, eyes glittering. “Man, your shake really is good, though. If I didn’t like you so much, I might be tempted to finish it.”

His grin turns wolfish as you blush and look away. You’ve only gone out twice, but it's clear by now that Eddie enjoys nothing more than seeing the effect he has on you— the way his words and touches can conjure goosebumps, shivers, and blushes from thin air. Sourly you sit there, wracking your brain for how to get him back.

It comes to you, and your lips curve with a smirk. Suddenly, you know just the thing.

You begin to deepen your breaths, exaggerating the rise of your chest and frowning in confusion. “Eddie? I feel faint,” you say weakly, glancing at him to see the enjoyment fall from his face as he transitions instantly into medical mode.

“What’s wrong?” he says, his typical calm paramedic cadence edged with concern. Your lips twitch as you hear it, but you suppress the impulse, wanting to continue your game. “Sweetheart, is it your head? Do you feel dizzy? What does it feel like?”

“I think…” you pause dramatically, eyes darting to take in his reaction, “...you’ve taken my breath away.”

Eddie’s concern flattens as he stares at you, entirely unimpressed. You just beam, pleased with yourself, and in the light of your smile, the mask of disapproval cracks; the dimple emerges as he loses the battle with his own grin. With faint amusement and plenty of fondness, Eddie says, “You really are trouble, aren’t you?”

The giant screen blazes to life in front of you, casting Eddie’s wild curls in a faint glow. The planes of his face soften in the light as the film begins, but neither of you move to switch on the radio yet. You simply gaze at him for a moment— this heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing and a not-so-secret heart of gold. When your sentiment floods your eyes, you watch Eddie’s honey-brown melt in kind. You hum your agreement, leaning over the armrest, and when Eddie meets you halfway, you reward him with a tender kiss. “I really am,” you murmur against his lips, and they brush yours as he smiles.

“Well, Trouble, it’s a good thing I know CPR,” he murmurs. And as the Wednesday double-feature begins, the movie’s soundtrack becomes the delight of your giggles, the warmth of Eddie’s chuckles, and the sweet press of your lips meeting again and again.

ask💌 | kofi🌼 | masterlist🌱

#blueywrites #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #newlipsmilestoneoflove

1K notes · View notes

minustwofingers · 2 years

Text

i need to tell you something

pairing: ellie williams x reader (no pronouns used for reader)

summary: you muster up the guts to confess to your best friend when she gets bit, but things go an unanticipated direction when she has a confession of her own

warnings: violence, ANGST!, swearing, painful yearning, ellie was low key maybe not the best gf to cat (???)

a/n: yeahhhh so i just wrote this rq. the poll is irrelevant now bc i'm posting this anyway. sorry that it's not enemies to lovers!! i thought best friends was calling for me to write it instead. physics tutor au may be more aligned w that kinda vibe. anyway enjoy x

wc: 1.9k

tags: (so sorry if i missed anyone, i'm being a little bad about adding tagged stuff but i promise exoplanet will have updated tags!)

@intrnetdoll @dazedshoon @lovecaraya @pctcr @sariyaflowr @loser-keiji @prettyplant0 @666findgod @sawaagyapong @rystarkov @buzzybuzzsposts @addisonnie @galacticstxrdust @parkersmyth @pinkazelma @ariianelle @lu002 @blairfox04 @sparkleswonderland @elliesflower

It happened so fast. One moment, you and your best friend were goofing off and joking around as you checked one of the abandoned cottages in the outskirts of the woods. You were pretending not to notice the way that your shoulders brushed as you went through the doorway, pretending like you didn’t yearn for a touch from her that was for once intentional.

The next, you were lying on the ground next to the same best friend, swallowing back the scream in your throat as you stared at the fresh bite mark on her shoulder.

The air smelled of damp wood and blood, the decrepit sitting room of the cottage dark and sheltered from the sun outside.

It was sunny outside. The world was cruel like that. You’d never be able to see the sun again without thinking about losing Ellie.

You’d thought you’d checked everywhere. You were sure of it. But then when you were goofing off trying to raid the cabinets and steal some extra CDs that you two could watch together later, you heard Ellie’s shriek and a crash.

It was the worst sound you’d ever heard in your life. Your vision went red as you saw the bedraggled, barely-human figure of a stalker crouch over her, digging its disgusting hands into her skin and snapping at her. You fired off 5 shots in succession, not stopping until it was limp.

Even while you were dragging it off her, praying to any God that might’ve been up there that she hadn’t been bitten by that thing, you were still hoping that maybe you’d been quick enough. Maybe you’d been fast enough, smart enough, strong enough to save her.

You knew it had been a pipe dream. You knew, but the sight of the blood pearling at her freckled skin in the shape of a mouth and her torn shirt still made you gasp in horror and drop to the floor next to her.

“No. No, no, no, no.” For some reason that was the only word you could bring yourself to say.

She was panting, her chest rising and falling with exertion from the fight.

Or maybe she was turning. It was a shoulder bite, after all. Those didn’t take long.

“I’m so, so, sorry.” Your hands found her face and cupped her jaw, letting your eyes meet hers.

“Y/N, wait—”

“I should have seen it,” you continued, shaking your head. “This is my fault. I’m so sorry. It should’ve been me. You don’t deserve this. I’m not going to leave you.”

As you spoke, tears slid down your face, blurring your vision until Ellie looked fuzzy.

Her hands wrapped around yours, pulling them from her face and intertwining your fingers as she laid them in her lap. “No, Y/N, don’t—”

“I can’t go on without you,” you said between choked sobs. “I won’t do it.”

The warm sun coming in through the window pane above you felt like a nasty joke. The golden light lit the back of Ellie’s head, reflecting off of her auburn hair like a halo. She’d never looked more beautiful. And she never would again.

“I need to tell you some–”

“Wait,” you interrupted, squeezing your eyes shut and gripping her hands tighter. “I’m sorry. I’ll let you go in a minute. I just—I need to tell you something too, okay? Before…before…”

You hiccuped and tried to shrug your shoulder to your cheek to catch the waterfall of tears and snot on your face.

“You’re freaking me out,” Ellie complained, resting her head against the wall and sending you a weak smile.

Her casualness, her fearlessness, her overall Ellie-ness made you nearly crack again, but you had to keep it together. You had to get this out. She couldn’t leave without hearing this.

“Listen,” you began, your voice wavering, “I, uh…I don’t know how to say this. I’m sorry if this isn’t something you want to hear. Oh, god, actually, this is really selfish of me. Nevermind.”

Because it was. These were the last few moments of Ellie’s life, and you were making it all about you. She didn’t see you like that, that much was clear. You’d once thought otherwise—but that was before Cat, before you saw her smile the same way with her and let Cat kiss her in front of everyone whenever you saw them around your friends.

So maybe it would be better if you just didn’t say anything. That way she wouldn’t look back on your memories together as creepy.

Ellie swallowed, then discreetly cast her gaze down to her right arm, just for a moment. “You can tell me anything, you know. You always could.”

The words brought a renewed wave of tears to your eyes, and you did your best to valiantly fight off the lump in your throat long enough to get the words out.

You supposed that if she was asking for it, she deserved to know the truth.

“Look, I—I really—” The words died in your throat.

Ellie was still and quiet, patiently waiting for you to finish and letting you hold her hands in a vice grip. She was always like that—so stoic and strong.

“I don’t know how to say this,” you repeated, turning your gaze back to your tangled fingers. “I don’t want to ruin the way you remember our friendship.”

“You couldn’t do that if you tried,” said Ellie, her lips pulling up. “I like you too much.”

It was stuff like that that made you want to rip your hair out and scream into your pillow.

I like you too much.

Just when you thought life couldn’t get any crueler, the purgatory of queer yearning always had a funny way of proving you wrong.

“I don’t want to keep lying to you.” Your voice wavered as you looked anywhere but her face. “I’ll always see you as a friend. I know that’s what I am to you. And I promise I wasn’t, like, being gross about this when we hung out.” The past tense made your stomach churn. Hung out. You’d never get to spend time again with her after this. Speed it up, Y/N. You’re running on borrowed time. “That’s to say that I really do love being friends with you. I always have. It’s just that—”

This had to be the most painful confession in the history of the world. Maybe you should just ask Ellie to bite you to put you out of your misery.

“I’ve always wanted more with you,” you forced out. “Like—more than friends. Ever since I met you.”

Ellie was suspiciously quiet for so long that you began to worry that she was already turned. You dared to peek up at her through your lashes.

She blinked twice in rapid succession upon meeting your eyes, her face otherwise void of emotion.

“I need to confess something too,” she said slowly, her voice significantly more even than you’d expect for someone preparing for their death.

If she was going to say that she felt the same way, you weren’t sure how you’d ever get over this.

“I’m immune.”

Oh.

“What?”

Then she laughed at you—actually laughed at you, her eyes crinkling.

“I’m immune,” she repeated, her lips stretched into a wide smile. “I was trying to tell you—but god forbid you let me finish anything I want to say—”

You tried to snatch your hands away from where they were entwined with hers in her lap, but her fingers refused to let up. “How do you even know that?!” She had to be lying.

“Because I’ve been bitten before,” she said. Her eyes were sparkling with mirth. “Twice, actually. And that was years ago. And look at it. It doesn’t look like other bites, right?”

You reluctantly gave it a closer look. True to her word, the tell-tale growths of the Cordyceps were nowhere to be seen, something unheard of for a bite so close to the head after a few minutes.

It was the real deal. She really wasn’t going to turn.

You never knew it was possible to feel this mortified.

“You’re such an asshole,” you snapped, finally succeeding in freeing your hands and pushing yourself away so you weren’t touching her. “You barely even tried to tell me. You let me embarrass myself.”

She shrugged, amusement still pulling at her mouth. “I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to hear what you had to say.”

“Well, that was very impolite of you.” You crossed your arms and looked away from her, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Just forget I said anything, okay?”

“Hey.”

There was a hand at your elbow, pulling you so you slid across the hardwood until your knees knocked together.

“Look at me,” said Ellie. Her voice was soft, almost gentle. You rarely ever heard her like this.

When you didn’t comply, the hand that wasn’t at your arm came to your chin, tilting it so she could see your face.

Ellie was still smiling, but there was something else in her eyes—something that wasn’t just amusement,

“It’s the same for me,” she said. Her skin was warm against yours. “Ever since I met you.”

Your heart stopped. “What? But what about Cat?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t think you saw me like that. I thought seeing other people would help.”

“And did it?”

Ellie winced. “Obviously not.”

“Poor Cat.” You weren’t sure how else to respond.

“Poor Cat,” Ellie agreed.

Shyly, your hand came up to brush back the piece of hair that had escaped from her bun, letting your fingers rest on the back of her neck.

You’d never touched her there before. You’d never had an excuse to touch her intentionally. Doing so felt almost criminal, like you were breaking some sort of unspeakable barrier.

But then she pulled you in and kissed you, and you forgot all about arbitrary rules and the now antiquated platonic label that defined you two.

It lasted for just a moment, her lips brushing against yours as you leaned into her, your fingers tangling into her hair. The gentle warmth of the sun hit your hand, and you twisted it so your forearm lay flat against her.

It was a mistake. Ellie cried out, startling you as you wrenched away from her. There was something warm and wet on your arm—which, upon further investigation, was the blood from the bite you’d accidentally pressed into as you maneuvered your hand.

“Shit,” you said. You’d totally forgotten that she’d still been injured regardless of her immunity. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ellie said, though you could tell she was hiding the pain. “Sorry. It didn’t hurt that much.”

“Let’s go back,” you said, standing up as you held out a hand. “We’ll get that cleaned up.”

You’d been worried that kissing her would change things. Maybe she’d decide that she didn’t actually want you after all and that she didn’t even want to be friends.

But once she’d grabbed your hand and laced your fingers together as you both walked down the road back to Jackson, you found that there was nothing to worry about. Not anymore.

final a/n: im gonna be so real and say i love the premise of this but this was a littleeee bit of a flop in my book i didn't know how to end it but i hope you all enjoy this as a way to hold you over while i finish p5!

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams self insert #ellie williams x oc #ellie williams x you #ellie williams imagine

448 notes · View notes

emepe · 5 months

Text

— Pairing: Eren x Reader, friends to lovers

— General info: series, 18+, modern AU, serial killer AU, smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

— Summary: Fate is a tricky thing. Certain situations can’t be avoided as much as certain people’s lives can’t be kept from intertwining. With a serial killer on the loose, and unexpected relationships blooming, how will the universe intervene?

— Chapter summary: The perfect first date: food, honest conversations, and tragic news.

— Content warnings: murder, mention of child neglect, implied SA.

— Notes: Hello, everybody! Welcome to chapter 5 <3 Thank you so much to everybody who has shown support for this story, especially those who have joined the tag list. If anyone else would like to be added, lmk in the comments here or for the chapter guide, or through DMs. Happy reading!

Links: Read on AO3 | Chapter guide | Masterlist

I want to know you

“Oh my gosh.”

Your muffled praise comes out in between chews.

Eren watches you amusedly as you swallow and wash the first bite of your taco down with agua de horchata.

“You like it?” he grins, an endeared laugh sputtering from his lips as he watches your brows scrunch in concentration toward your meal.

Your eyes shimmer with joy when you look up at him and nod.

For your first date, Eren decided to take you out to the food trucks stationed across town. You finally got the chance to try out the tacos Sasha and Connie raved about the night you met everybody. It was the perfect way to secure a fun time while also curing you of any leftover hangover symptoms. With the fresh air brushing through your hair and cooling your skin, and Eren as your companion, you couldn't have asked for anything better.

Eren could barely get a wink of sleep after he got back to his apartment, his excitement too much for his body to bear as he replayed everything in his head. The moment you kissed him first, when you made tea together, when he kissed you, and when you told him you liked him back. Even now, as he watches you test how much salsa you can handle in one bite, the memories keep swirling in his mind in a swoon-worthy loop.

The reality of it all still hasn't fully sunk in. He doesn't even know when you could've possibly changed your mind. It all fed into the theory that he probably didn't need to stress about it as much as he did — all he had to do was be himself. But what kind of man would he be if he just assumed you'd give into his charms no matter what?

This moment, he thinks, is nothing but bliss.

“You're staring again,” you murmur, glancing at him through your lashes.

It's never bothered you if you're honest. Eren’s intense gaze has always been warm, always shy, and full of admiration. Even before last night, you never chose to call him out for it. It was innocent. Now that you've confessed to mutual feelings, every glance, every accidental or purposeful touch begs to be acknowledged.

You marvel at his cute side, which makes him blush profusely and produces that boyish laugh of his each time, in place of muttered apologies or swallowed words.

There's still an air of tension on scarce occasions when he debates which limits have been implicitly lifted after last night's intimate moment in your apartment. It's all so new, and your friendship was fairly brief. Asking if he can hold your hand, hold you by the waist, or tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear is still a bit awkward for him.

“I can't help myself. You're just too pretty.”

It's your turn to avert your gaze shyly, your cheeks burning intensely. Of course, the compliment was more than welcome. You purposely stayed awake after he left your place to lay out the perfect attire for the occasion. A chunky beige sweater, a denim skirt, and knee-length boots were the way to go, you decided. As a special touch, a chunky silk headband adorned your head — a nod of sorts to your halo from the Halloween party.

“Your tacos are gonna get cold if you keep getting distracted,” you murmur, though a hint of a smile slips through the cracks of your stern demeanor.

“Fine. Let me stuff my mouth and shut up,” he sighs, faking a sniffle.

You laugh.

On the other side of the park, five people watch your first date unfold before their eyes from the safety of an SUV.

“Are you sure it's them?” Sasha asks from the backseat. Jean and Mikasa have their matching sunglasses low on the bridges of their nose as they squint at the picnic table you and Eren are sharing.

“For sure, for sure.” Jean nods.

“No wonder neither of them replied to the groupchat,” Mikasa adds.

“We could go eat somewhere else?” Connie suggests.

Sasha instantly grumbles a fervent denial.

“I've been craving tacos since before we even got to the bar last night.”

“We could just wait them out. They're not gonna stay here forever. Eren's taking her for a drive after.”

Jean shoots an annoyed glance at Armin through the rearview mirror.

“You knew they were coming here?”

Armin raises both hands in surrender.

“He only mentioned it in passing when I called him last night! I didn't think we'd bump into them.”

“Maybe, we should go,” Mikasa suggests. “This feels too much like spying.”

The group watches as Eren brushes your hair out of your face when the wind picks up for a brief moment, leaving you to look up at him with a shy smile shaping your lips.

A collective aww echoes inside the car.

“So,” Eren says, smacking his lips together after a sip of water. “I have to ask you something.”

“Hm?”

“What changed your mind?”

“I already told you. You grew on me.”

From the way you avert your gaze and bring the plastic cup of water to your lips for a long sip, he can tell it's an attempt to dismiss the topic.

He zeroes in on your face and stays that way even after your eyes meet his and read through his silent plea.

“I like how kind you are,” you finally say, voice as soft as ever, caressing his ears and pulling at his heart with every syllable.

Eren doesn't consider himself to be known for his kindness. In fact, before this very moment, it hasn't been a topic to linger in his mind. He doesn't lie awake at night thinking about how he may be perceived and what he can do to switch the narrative in his favor. But perhaps you've hit the nail on what makes Eren Jaeger so appealing beyond his looks because a genuinely kind person doesn't have to think much about being so.

“You're… caring and strong but gentle at the same time. And you're genuinely nice to everyone, it's admirable.”

Eren's skin burns with a fever as he holds your gaze.

“I'm actually a bit jealous,” you murmur, tearing your gaze from him to focus on your now empty plate.

“What? Why?”

You shake your head, refusing to answer him.

“Nothing. Forget I said that.”

You don't have the nerve to explain your reasoning as you feel yourself shrink to half your size. It's not something one can just say — to tell someone that you wish you'd met them sooner because maybe then you wouldn't have had to spend your formative years feeling so lonely, that you would've done anything to have been handled with such care when everything was going downhill. To get drunk off of it and maybe now you wouldn't be so closed off to any attention and yet simultaneously still so desperate to be taken care of, to allow yourself to be cradled in someone's arms. It's embarrassing to display such childlike ideas — you're responsible for yourself; you and only you.

Eren's lips press into a thin line as he observes you through pensive eyes. His features soften soon enough, as he decides to retreat from crossing any boundaries.

“Do you mind if I ask one more thing?”

He raises his hands in defense when you start fidgeting in your seat.

“It's not about what you just said, I promise.”

Warily, you nod.

“When we met at Armin's party… I really wanted to get your attention.”

The familiar wave of heat starts washing over his cheeks.

“I thought you were pretty — even before when I bumped into you at the bakery. Then when I saw you talking to everyone and smiling, I just… I couldn't stop looking at you. And so I tried to get you to notice me too, you know? But when you said you didn't see me that way I figured I should stop trying. I thought maybe I would get over my crush and I'd be fine with being just friends. So when you kissed me last night at the bar… I kept racking my brain for what I could've done to make you think of me differently.”

Running a hand through his hair, he sighs, the heavy exhale ending in soft shy laughter.

“I'm just curious, that's all. I swear I wasn't trying to get you to look at me anymore.”

A moment passes by in silence after his admission. He waits patiently, his gaze bouncing from your face to his hands, to nowhere at all, and back to you.

“It's a little embarrassing,” you begin.

“I want to know.”

“You remember when we both went to Armin's apartment? When he got sick?”

He hums, encouraging you to continue.

“You were moving around his kitchen, making him soup and tea. And then you sent him to his room to make him rest.”

You bring a hand up to cover your face, much too shy to give him a full view of your meek expression as you continue speaking.

“You were so stern but gentle. I might’ve felt something that day.”

Pride swells in Eren's chest as the butterflies stir frantically in his stomach and his cheeks flare with heat.

“Then the day we went apple-picking. When you took care of me after I got hurt?”

He nods when you glance up at him briefly to make sure he's still paying attention.

“That's the day I realized I liked you.”

His attempt at biting back a grin fails miserably and he finally gives in to the thrill produced by the new information.

You notice this. It's endearing to watch him light up at the compliments you direct at him. It's as if your words hold an incredible power over him — the power to make him a blushing, grinning mess.

“And you're insanely hot, I can't keep lying to myself,” you bluntly state with a shrug.

The sudden laughter bubbling up his throat causes him to fall into a fit of amused coughing. Your laughter laces with his, the sound dancing around you both like music.

“What about you?” you ask once he regains his breath.

Eren's head tilts in confusion.

“I've never changed my mind since meeting you,” he firmly states.

The seriousness in his tone squeezes at your chest. You clear your throat, bashful.

“I mean, the exact moment you started feeling something.”

“The night we met. When we were out on Armin's balcony,” Eren replies without missing a beat.

Your eyebrows twitch in shock.

“That soon? That was the first day we met.”

Flashes of that night come flooding into Eren's memory. The image of you looking up at him with glassy eyes as you wondered aloud if there would be anyone to mourn you — so small, so fragile. He wanted to cradle you in his arms and nurse you to sleep. Just looking at you built an incredible pressure in his chest. From that moment on, he had no doubts about his simple crush evolving into something more meaningful.

“I really couldn't stop looking at you.”

“They look good together.”

A series of hums and murmured agreements follow Mikasa's statement.

“We can't let them know we spied on their first date,” Connie says, his eyes looking down sternly at everyone until they nod in agreement.

“Blame Armin. He knew the entire time,” Jean jokingly mutters, glancing briefly at the blond through the rearview mirror.

“Again, I didn't think we'd bump into them. Jeez, give me a break,” Armin huffs.

Mikasa suddenly gasps as she watches you and Eren get up from the picnic table and head out of the park to where Eren's car is parked.

“They're leaving, get down!”

The drive to somewhere unknown to you is reminiscent of the drive to Sunrise Orchards. The only difference is that this time, nobody occupies the backseat and it's just you, Eren, and the soft music that swirls around you.

After Eren refused to give you any hint of your destination, you calmly accepted anything to come your way. As you and Eren engage in an inevitable game of twenty-one questions — nobody's keeping count — you keep your focus on the passing trees and speeding cars, fingers mindlessly tapping along to the beat of the songs that play on the radio that you happen to know.

“What's something you're really nerdy about?” you ask.

He hums in thought for a moment, then laughs.

“I collect Sailor Moon figurines.”

Your eyes widen.

“Really?”

Grinning, he nods.

“Not in a weird way,” he clarifies. “I just loved watching the show when I was growing up, and it kind of stayed with me.” He shrugs. “I like cute things.”

You giggle.

“I'm surprised, I would've thought you were into Dragon Ball Z.”

“Oh, I'm definitely a fan, too. But kid Eren wanted to marry Sailor Mars when he grew up.”

You laugh.

“Okay, your turn.”

“What do you think of aliens? Real or fake?” Eren asks.

While your questions mostly refer to basic things such as places he’s traveled to, sports he's played, how many years since he moved to the city, and how many relationships he's been in — he did a year abroad in Spain during college, played lacrosse in high school, it's been three years, and he's only ever had one girlfriend — his land on a random spectrum, from asking about your favorite snacks to your thoughts on the moon landing and if you would've turned around had you been Orpheus.

“Real,” you say without an ounce of hesitation.

“Really?”

He turns to look at you with surprise.

“It's ridiculous to think there's nothing but space matter out there,” you explain matter-of-factly. “The universe is huge. We haven't even explored more than five percent of our own ocean. There's got to be tons of stuff we don't know about up there.” Your hands move around in broad gestures as your voice picks up with every word.

“Okay, relax,” he laughs. “I agree, aliens are real.” He shoots you an accomplice smile. “Maybe.”

You playfully punch his arm.

“Easy there, Rocky. I'm driving here.”

A laugh sputters from your lips.

“Your turn,” he murmurs amusedly.

You hum as you look out the window pensively until a question pops into your head.

“Are you religious?”

He shrugs.

“I'm not sure what to call it. My mom's catholic so I grew up going to church and all those things. I don't know if I actually believe in God, though. I'd feel like a hypocrite if I said yes knowing I haven't prayed since I was a kid.”

“What about your dad? Was he religious?” you ask, disregarding the fact your turn in the game is over.

“I think he just converted to make my mom happy. He was more of a science man.”

You nod contemplatively.

“Your turn,” you murmur.

“Hm… same question.”

You inhale deeply, holding the air in your lungs as you briefly think your answer over.

“I'm not,” you conclude.

He eyes you furtively.

“Why's that?”

A familiar pain wraps around your throat, as you debate whether to choke the words out or swallow them. Eren turns to you, concerned, as he pulls into a line of cars looking to be let into what seems to be a private park. You make your choice.

“I used to pray a lot when I was younger. I don't think I asked for much but everything always went unanswered.”

The amount of times Eren's been waiting for you to steer near the topic of your past is too many to count. Ever since your drunken comment at Armin's apartment, he's been wanting to know. Pure curiosity played a huge part, of course, but mostly he’s been wanting to understand you. Maybe get to know why you’re so quiet, and why you shrink into yourself when coming face to face with new people.

So now, when it feels like your words are teetering on the edge of the topic, he can't help but feel consumed by the fear that you'll close the door on him before he gets a chance to offer you an ear.

The car behind him honks impatiently, breaking Eren out of his daze and forcing him to pull up to the now empty spot beside the entrance booth.

He pays the entry fees and pulls up the car into a gravel parking lot.

“Give me a second,” he smiles before climbing out of his seat and rounding the car to open your door. He keeps a hand on the roof of the car to keep you from bumping your head as you step out and look around curiously.

There's barely a crowd, just a couple of families making their way onto some wooden paths lined with tall grass on both sides. The wind is a bit stronger than it was before, but nothing you can't manage.

“Where are we?”

You look at Eren quizzically.

Typical of when he's nervous, he runs a hand through his hair.

“Come on,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and leading you down the same path you saw the other families disappear into.

The further you walk, the wooden planks that make up the path you walk on are further buried in sand. The air grows saltier and the wind grows cooler as the grass at your sides thins out and you're exposed to a private beach.

You look up at Eren. He shrugs.

“You said you wanted to go to the beach.”

Your lips perk into a delighted smile as you take in the view. Even with the sky in all its gloomy autumn glory, your face lights up at the scene. The water calmly washes back and forth, kissing the shoreline each time as its foaming whispers tickle your ears. The tall grass behind you sways with every blow of the wind.

“I know it kind of sucks right now because of the weather but I wanted to get first dibs with you before we come back in the summer with everyone else.”

You cover a giggle with your hand as you both walk deeper into the sand. Your boots were a fortunate fashion choice. Otherwise, you'd have sand sneaking into your shoes had you worn sneakers like Eren. He doesn't seem to mind, though, as he happily walks beside you, eyeing you carefully in case you take a bad step.

The two of you sit side by side on the sand, far enough from either of the families that came before you so that any ensuing conversations are kept just between you and him.

You close your eyes and allow the salty air to fill your lungs as the wind blows at your hair.

Eren keeps his eyes on you the entire time, admiring every dip and curve of your side profile until you gently call his name and meet his mesmerized gaze.

“Hm?” he hums, brushing any stray hairs from your face.

“I have a confession to make,” you sheepishly murmur.

An eyebrow quirks up on Eren's face in response.

“I've been to the beach before. Just once.”

He nods along, unsure of where you're headed.

“It's not a good memory.” Your voice shrinks. “But this is nice.”

The grateful smile on your face fades just long enough for you to lean over and kiss his cheek. That same smile grows when his face reddens.

“Do you mind if I sit a little closer?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

You inch closer to him, enough so that when you turn to look at him again, your faces are just inches apart.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“You're welcome,” he whispers back.

You remain quiet for a moment, purely enjoying the act of looking into each other’s eyes. It'd be great practice for Eren to stop feeling so shy now that you look at him in the way he always wished you would if he weren't blushing profusely the entire time. But it gets easier with every precious second.

His eyes dart to your lips, which causes you to finally be absorbed by the same shyness as him as you lower your gaze for a second before looking back at him.

Eren has never been so captivated by another girl like this. He so desperately wants to cup your face in his hands and kiss you, but the words you've scattered on the way here keep gnawing at his brain.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“Now that we're dating,” he pauses to clear his throat. The words are brand new on his tongue, he can nearly imagine a sweet taste to them even if the ones to follow are laced with an uneasy sensation. “Is it okay if I ask you about more personal things?”

Eren has been witness to you looking small only a handful of times — or rather, two. This makes three.

Upon your hesitation, he decides to retract the idea.

“I’m sorry. If you don’t want to, that’s fine.”

A reassuring smile pulls at the corners of his lips.

“I can talk about aliens for hours on end.” He sighs. “I just… my offer from last time still stands… and I meant it when I said I want to learn everything about you. But I don’t want you to feel pressured to tell me about it.”

You shake your head — finally, a response.

“It’s not that,” you mutter. “I just don’t want you to feel like I’m dumping everything on you. It wouldn’t be fair.”

His eyes soften.

“I’m asking, though.”

Uncertainty clouds your eyes, leaving Eren to wonder just how bad everything must be for you to feel so scared. Just your blunt revelation on that first night felt like a low blow. It’s more than likely the weight of it all has been crushing you from the inside your entire life.

You nip at the cracks on your lips, pulling at a sliver of skin until it peels and leaves a faint trace of blood.

It’s hard to let someone in. You know Eren means well — offering to hear you out and willing to ease the weight that’s been suffocating you for twenty years. But the way you see it, it’s incredibly selfish to ask him to share your burdens when you’re barely strong enough to hold onto them yourself.

If you’re a bit more honest with yourself, you’re also trying to guard him from destroying his perception of you. You know he’s liked you from the start. You wanted to keep a friendly distance — that was the plan. After all, there’s only so much one can grasp when looking at the big picture.

Now that you’ve come to understand how you feel about him — and now that you feel you have something to lose — it’ll devastate you to have him see how truly weak and battered you are. He’ll want to comfort you — tell you that you can always seek refuge with him. You’ll accept out of greed. Little by little, you’ll get used to relying on his protection and embrace and he’ll inevitably get tired of it. Not that Eren seems like the kind of person to abandon someone he claims to care about, but sometimes even the most patient hearts get worn down.

“If there’s anything you don’t want to talk about, you can just… punch me in the face or something. I can take a hint.” Eren shrugs.

Your laughter pours into the palm of your hand. Eren watches you proudly, relieved at his success in dissipating your tension.

“Okay,” you murmur.

With an appreciative smile on his lips, he nods.

“Alright.”

He leans back, pressing his palms into the sand as he looks up at the sky in thought.

“What was the town you grew up in like?”

In Eren’s eyes, you nearly seem relieved by the question, which is exactly why he started with something fairly easy. He won’t take things too far today, just enough to strengthen the foundation of what he wants to build. The rest, you can tell him with time.

The name of a city Eren’s never heard of comes out of your mouth.

“It’s not a very big town,” you explain. “But I guess still big enough to have a bad side.”

A humorless chuckle escapes your lips.

“Um… there’s not much to say, really. I was born there, grew up there, and went to school there. It wasn’t a violent area but it was pretty… forgotten, I guess. Most of the people living there were low-income. I lived in this really small apartment with my parents. It only had one bedroom so the living room was also my room. There were many kids there but they were either too old or too young for me to play with, and you already know I don’t have any siblings, so… you know, I grew up feeling pretty lonely.”

You sigh, offering Eren some silence as a sign that you’re done answering his first question.

“What were your parents like?”

“My mom… was really pretty,” you smile, though when you look back at him, Eren notices a hint of tears lining your lashes. “She had me when she was a senior in high school so my parents got together pretty young. After they separated, I still got to see my dad for a while until he just… forgot. I think he got a new family but I’m still not sure the man I saw a few years ago was him. If it was, then, he was doing pretty well. He was driving his kids to school.”

“Did you like school?” he asks.

“I loved it.”

Your face lights up as you recall your moments spent in a classroom, thrilled to learn and devouring every book you could from the school’s library.

“I wanted to be a teacher when I grew up.”

A smile makes its way to Eren’s face as he pictures you surrounded by kids eager to learn.

“Yeah?”

You nod, a hint of nostalgia and childlike glee shimmering in your eyes.

“Why didn’t you?”

A heavy sigh slumps your shoulders.

“Well, for starters, I’d need a degree.”

Brows furrowed, you chew on the inside of your cheek as you contemplate what’s lost. “I only have a GED.”

Eren feels a puncturing sensation as his heart deflates.

“You could still go back to school,” he suggests. “You’re young, you have time.”

It’s nothing you haven’t thought of before, but his words are comforting nonetheless. But you shake your head.

“No. I think the itch has passed, anyway. Besides, I’m happy now just to get by even if I never pictured myself as an office manager.”

Eren nods in understanding.

“Wait, so you didn’t go to high school?”

“I dropped out halfway through freshman year,” you explain. “Things at home weren’t going so well, so I just… had to.”

“So, you started working?”

You nod.

“Yeah. I was fifteen so I picked up as many odd jobs as I could.”

Eren looks up at you in awe.

“And you still found the time to study for your GED. That’s amazing,” he gushes.

A shy gust of air blows through your nose.

“I had some help, so I didn’t struggle too much.”

Eren tilts his head in curiosity. Maybe there was a time when your mom got better enough to help you study.

“Your mom?” he asks.

Your shoulders stiffen and you start blinking nervously.

“Um… no.”

You look down at your lap, where you nervously pick at your cuticles in an attempt to ground yourself. Eren watches you closely.

“I um… one of my old high school teachers took me in for a while. He helped me prepare for the test.”

Eren purses his lips, confused as to why you seem so uneasy about it. Maybe you’re embarrassed by the fact that you had to search for help outside of your home, but that’s nothing to stress over. In fact, he’s relieved you had someone to lean on during such tough times.

“He sounds like a nice guy,” he murmurs.

“I guess,” you whisper so softly it barely reaches his ears.

“Have you kept in touch with him after moving here?”

A ghostly ‘no’ makes its way past your lips.

Eren sits up straight, an uneasy feeling nudging at the pit of his stomach. He lowers his head so he can get a view of your face. Your eyes seem dead, all glassiness vanishes as you stare at a blank point.

“Hey, you okay?”

His voice draws your attention. You look back at him, eyes wide and lips parted to take in hushed shallow breaths. Eren’s eyebrows upturn in concern. Little by little, the longer you look at him, your features soften, your shoulders relax, your eyes come back to life, and your breathing steadies.

“You wanna punch me in the face?” he offers.

“No,” you murmur back, eyes twinkling with amusement. “But can we stop for now?”

He smiles and nods.

“Give me your hand.”

“Why?” you ask, but give in to his direction anyway.

“Because,” he says as he presses your hand down against his chest, right above his heart. “I want to kiss you, and I don’t want you to freak out on me like last time.”

Though you know he’s teasing, embarrassment creeps up your neck at the memory, anyway. Still, you gently stroke his chest with your thumb, relieved to feel his heartbeat on your fingertips.

“It’s not like I’ll freak out each time,” you mumble, breath shortening as he dips his head forward to brush your nose with his.

“Just in case, then,” he whispers, his breath tickling your upper lip.

He tilts his head as he closes the gap between you. At a hair's distance, he whispers a teasing ‘deep breath’, swallowing your laughter immediately after.

His lips gently caress yours, slowly, with calculated strokes that make you sigh into his mouth. Any lingering trace of stiff muscles and chest pain is gradually ridden by his soft affections. The hand that keeps you holding onto his heart is warm and strong, giving you a light squeeze as his heart rate picks up with the pure ecstasy that comes with kissing you.

He pulls back, just enough to grant you room to breathe.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not feeling lightheaded or anything?”

You giggle against his lips.

“No.”

“Lucky.”

He captures your lips once more as his free hand comes up to cradle your face and hold you closer. Your skin is warm to the touch, evidence of your timidness as you allow his tongue into your mouth to tease your own. Shivers run down your spine upon a single strained moan that bubbles from Eren’s throat as your tongues push and swirl against each other.

Despite the heated tone of Eren’s affections, you somehow feel at peace, taken care of, and safe. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears as his pounds against your fingertips in the same frantic manner. With the wind now dancing more aggressively around you as you feel yourself melt into his passionate kiss, this moment feels nothing short of poetic. It’s a mirror to the mayhem of incoherent ideas in your head — dizzying and beautiful, all at once.

With the hand that’s comfortably nestled into his chest, you push him back lightly but remain close enough for your shallow breaths to lace in the air with his.

“Eren,” you exhale.

“Hm?”

He pulls back to observe you better. Your lips are glossy with his saliva, reddened and swollen from his sweet assault. Your eyes twinkle as they stare into his affectionately. It’s an image worthy of committing to memory.

“Is it okay if we take things slow?”

Your voice is low, unsure. It looks as if you’re wary of his response — not out of fear, but rather out of genuine concern.

“Slow is good,” he murmurs, relieved.

“You sure?”

“I promise.”

If anything, Eren’s grateful to follow the pace you set. There’s nothing more addicting than having his lips on yours — and he undoubtedly wants more if he can handle the repercussions on his cardiac system — but if he can ease into it instead of putting his heart at risk, then best not to race into anything.

A gust of wind blows past you, picking up grains of sand in its wake as well as raising goosebumps on your skin.

“We should go. I don’t want you to get sick,” Eren says, voice firm and decisive.

He helps you get back on your feet and starts leading you back to the parking lot.

When you’re just about to reach the wooden planks, you nearly trip over a rock buried in the sand. Eren’s arm wraps around your waist to keep you from falling. As you regain your balance, he grabs onto your hand, lacing your fingers together while he fakes nonchalance through his blushing cheeks.

“Just in case,” he mutters.

He doesn’t let go until you reach his car.

Eren carefully pulls into a spot in the parking lot behind your apartment building. With a smile, he unbuckles his seatbelt and rounds the car to open your door.

Your hand meets his, comfortably slotting your fingers between his as if his hold has been tailored to accommodate you.

He glances at your locked hands and back at you, a small smile playing on his blushing face.

“Just in case,” you murmur.

You walk hand in hand to the main entrance and make your way to the elevator. You settle in, glancing at each other to exchange smiles.

“Do you think I’ll have any luck for a second date?”

You click your tongue, shaking your head in mock disappointment.

“Ah, you see, you just ruined it by asking.”

“Oh, shoot,” he groans, theatrically snapping his fingers. “Well, what can you do, am I right?”

With a shake of your head, you smile.

The elevator dings on the third floor and you make your way down the hall toward your apartment door. The short journey brings back memories of the previous night, or rather what occurred just some hours ago. It all seems so foreign now as if the last time Eren watched you unlock your door was ages ago — as if your new reality has been going on for more than a single day. The couple facing each other as they struggle to bid each other goodbye is completely different from the two shy people who shared a kiss at a bar.

“Thank you for today, Eren,” you murmur as you step forward to place a hand on his chest, in your designated spot.

Humans need to go through the motions an average of twenty-eight times to build a habit, but it’s no surprise that holding his heartbeat in your hand has turned into one much more easily with all the warm feelings it awakes inside you.

You blink up at him, hoping he’ll take the hint. The corners of your lips tug upwards when he dips forward, aiding you in closing the distance between you.

“My pleasure,” he murmurs, gazing affectionately into your eyes.

His free hand reaches your face, cradling it softly and stroking your cheek with his thumb as you lean into his touch.

“I think you’re a shoo-in for a second date, by the way.”

“You must not have many prospects in your agenda, then,” he teases, recalling your sarcasm from the night before.

“No, I do,” you reply with an air of arrogance. “But there’s only one I like,” you whisper as his nose brushes against yours.

“I hope it’s me, otherwise this entire afternoon has been very misleading,” he grins.

In response, you press your lips against his in one swift peck which he takes the reins on converting to a proper kiss goodbye one breath later.

Slowly, gently, warmly. Very fitting for a guy like him to kiss.

“I’ll start making date plans as soon as I get home,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Don’t be too long, please.”

He chuckles softly.

“I won’t.”

The warmth on the side of your face fades, leaving you to feel empty from the lack of his touch as his hand falls to his side.

“I’ll see you soon,” he grins, stepping away further as he waves you goodbye.

“Bye, Eren,” you smile, watching him turn around and head to the elevator.

You perk up at a sudden reminder, and his name bounces off your tongue instinctively.

He turns around, his boyish grin still playing on his lips from your goodbyes.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll tell you everything one day. I promise.”

His eyes light up at your words while yours shimmer with hope and sincerity.

“Take your time. I’m here for the long haul.”

Once you shut the door behind you, you bring a hand to your heart, an echo of a smile still lingering on your features as Eren’s words ring in your head.

You slip out of your boots, changing into slippers to be more comfortable.

With the press of a button on your remote, the TV blinks to life, the evening news serving as background while you fix yourself a cup of tea in your kitchen. The reporter’s words are mostly lost on you as you still struggle to ground yourself from the high of a perfect first date.

It’s not until the words woman found dead reach your ears, that you abruptly crash down to earth and rush to turn up the volume.

With a fearful glassiness coating your eyes, you stare at the television screen as the details of a new murder are disclosed. Despite your undivided attention set on the news, you only manage to grasp a few relevant words. Slash, neck, dumpster, twenty-three, suspicion of rape. The blood drains from your face and your mind goes completely blank when it’s revealed that the victim was last seen attending a Halloween event at a bar last night — the very same bar you were at last night with your friends.

The kettle on the stove screeches for your attention moments after the news is replaced by a less tragic one, but it takes you much longer to find the strength to stand.

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Chapter guide | Masterlist | Navigation

taglist: @erenjaegerwifee @youatemylollipop @okaystopwhore

#eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #eren jaeger fanfiction #eren jaeger fluff #eren jaeger x y/n #eren yeager fanfiction #eren yeager x you #aot x reader #aot x y/n #snk x reader

55 notes · View notes

littlebluespoon · 11 months

Text

Call of Duty Masterlist

(using a soap gif cause he's scottish like me and bbygrl)

Asks found under #asks for blue

Nightmares - John Price Truck Driver au 18+ noncon, kidnapping

Simon Riley, angst drabble

Halo - Dark Kyle Garrick 18+

Beds - 141 Kidnappers drabble 18+

Choices (Ch1), Fork In the Road (Ch2) - Werewolf Soap

Stuck - Octo!König x Medic Reader (Part 1) (AO3 link in part 1)

Stuck Again - Octo!König (Part 2) (What I imagine he looks like)

Unstuck - Octo!König (Part 3)

Stranded - Octo!König (Part 4)

Isolated - Octo!König (Part 5)

Teddy Bear - Dark, yandere, kidnapper 141 headcannons

Migraines - John Price drabble

What happens when you go to an F1 race with 141

Army of the Dead AU

Octo!König x Civilian Wife 18+ sexual content

Kidnapper König has nightmares Stockholm syndrome

Kidnapper König gets sick stockholm syndrome, illness

Octo!König hiding inside reader 18+ sexual content

Octopus Kisses - Octo!König 18+ sexual content, dub con

Octo!König and period pains

Octo!König and Brat reader 18+ sexual content, dub con, monster fucking

Folie à Dix (John Price x afab reader x everyone) - Une

#bluespoonswriting #call of duty fanfic #call of duty x reader #asks for blue

139 notes · View notes

ghoularaki · 7 months

Text

baby's breath | 5

↠ summary: Merely by coincidence, Erwin, your father's former friend had crossed paths with you again after nearly a decade. He offered solace once finding out you were struggling with not just school, but your home life as well. His home he shared with another one of your father's friends, Levi, became a sanctuary. Though, the more you came over for study sessions, the more they wiggled themselves into your private life. And like baby's breath, they weeded themselves in so deep you couldn't uproot them.

↠ word count: 4,790

↠ pairing: levi ackerman x reader x erwin smith

↠ genre/warnings: angst, smut, modern au, DARK CONTENT, yandere, water torture, drowning, emotional/physical abuse. NSFW (noncon, knifeplay, bondage, orgasm denial, no aftercare)

You shivered.

Levi had enough decency to graciously leave your pajamas alone. Not that they left much to the imagination and the water dripping off you only exposed you more. From your kneeling position, the man seemed almost endless. The sun behind him cast him in shadow like the night before. Given the circumstances, you could almost call him angelic. A halo of sunlight, a ring around his inky hair that shimmered.

God like in his stature, you’re to be left at his mercy.

The constant dripping of the water coming off the tip of the hose grated your ears. At the end of the hose was a high pressure nozzle with multiple settings. His thumb subtly flipped to the next setting with a click, click. Your body tensed in apprehension, back coiled tight.

“You’re lucky Erwin likes you.”

Both his face and voice were bored. As if torturing you was a chore and not something he indulged in. Despite his words, his eyes gleamed and sparked. Likened to flint hitting steel.

“Because if I had it my way, you would have been meat gifted to the neighbor’s dog,” He brought the nozzle up to his face, staring at it before glancing back at you, “This will have to do.”

“Fuck you,” You weakly spat, voice jittering at the end.

“We’ll get to that.”

You did not like what that entailed. Not like you could be too shocked with the fiasco he pulled at the dinner table. Levi wanted to break you down until nothing of you was left.

His voice pulled you from your thoughts, “We can do this the easy or hard way. Apologize.”

You scoffed at him, “Apologize? Apologize to the fucking bastards-”

Freezing cold water shot up into your nose and into your open mouth. You sputtered once more as Levi was merciless with directing the stream of water right into your face. Your hands begged to shoot out in front of you, to block the assault, but you could only pathetically squirm.

The stream was clicked off. Heaving over, your forehead hit the cement as you gasped for air, snot and drool poured from your orifices.

“Apologize.”

Closing your eyes, you tried to regroup yourself, but Levi stepped closer. Water filled your nostrils once more and you choked and gargled. The pain of liquid going up into your sinuses burned and stung at your eyes. You sucked in your lips to keep the water from going in your mouth and down into your lungs. It offered little help.

The stream hit harder, pelting you. Levi didn’t stop even as you tried to crawl away. It was getting hard to breathe. Fuck, you couldn’t breathe. Panic washed over you, your body shaking and going into overdrive.

“Stop!” You attempted to say, but the water only invaded more of your body.

He stopped. You flopped over to your side, already exhausted. How could you be so weak? Your chest rapidly expanded and concaved. Vision blurry, his form approached you to lift your head up from the ground with a firm grip on your hair.

“Apologize.”

His eyes swallowed you whole. You had to fight, at least for a little longer. Call it stubbornness or stupidity, but you refused to roll over.

“N-no.”

Levi dropped you instantly. Unable to catch yourself, your temple smacked against the concrete. If your head wasn’t swimming enough, it sure was now. Elegantly, he straightened his back and loomed over you properly.

Like he was offended you would dare glare up at him, he sprayed the water at you once more. In your laying position, the ability to crawl away became harder. Desperate for oxygen you rapidly turn your body over, the harsh stream now hitting your back.

“Squirmy little mutt.” You swore you heard Levi mutter over the whooshing hose.

A boot clad foot anchored itself on your hip and turn you back over. He sprayed it right into your face, your back arched with your hands firm against your spine. As your feet scrambled to push yourself from his grip, he dug his heel further into the bone until you screamed. If he applied just a little more pressure your hip would pop out of place. Bruises surely were already forming. The kind that’s beneath skin and muscles ache cruelly.

More water entered your agape mouth. You coughed off the liquid only for it to bubble back into the same orifice along with the constant stream. Your lungs were soggy and expanded.

Feet uselessly kicking, Levi clicked the water off once more.

Instinctively you coughed the water out from your chest. Tilting your head to the side to avoid the same misfortune before, you gazed further into the backyard. From here the woods stretched far, too far for the neighbors to see.

With the tip of his shoe, Levi tilted your face back towards him. “Oi, brat, did I kill you already?”

Blankly, you moved your eyes to his. The movement was enough of an answer for him.

Under his stare, you shivered and your teeth clattered. With the summer sun blaring down on you, you would think you would welcome the cold water, but it only pierced your skin. Nothing was refreshing about the way he took away your right to breathe over and over.

“Apologize.”

From the loss of oxygen to your brain and your skull bouncing off the concrete, his words barely processed. All you could hear was your own rugged inhales. Blood pumped in your ears as you pinched your eyebrows.

Taking your sluggish movement as defiance, he continued his torture once more. Clamping your mouth shut, the water hit your nostrils for the umpteenth time in a row. The burn and sting cracked your resolve. You were dying or at least getting close to it.

And you refused to die by the hands of such a disgusting man like him.

Turning your head to the side, you screamed, “I’m sorry!”

Warmth. The water stopped: hopefully for good. With a jittering jaw, you repeated yourself with a softer tone. Creaking your neck back up to Levi, you said it for a third time.

“Tch.”

He offered no response to your plea masked as an apology. When he raised the hose again, you yelped and scrambled, trying to get back into the kneeling position.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Levi quickly quelled your panicking by tugging the hose and wrapping the tubing between his hand and under his elbow, looping it round and round while walking towards the rack. A few paces away from your sniveling form, he neatly laid it down and screwed off the valve, completely turning the water off.

Gracefully, he made his way back to you. Able to get into a proper kneeling position, you looked up at him. You must be a mess. Snot and drool slipping down your puffy lips, eyes bloodshot. As he did earlier, he peered down at you from under his nose.

Silence swarmed you.

Both of you were like animals waiting for the other to strike. Him the predator and you the prey, but even sometimes a mouse will strike back. Though, as your shoulders heaved, you had no fight left in you. For now.

Sensing this, Levi crouched down to your level. With a patient hand he reached towards your face. You flinched back in fear. The alarm bells of what said hand did mere moments ago blared in your brain. To your surprise, he gently wiped the snotted pooling on your cupid’s bow.

“What a mess.”

Cupping your cheek, you leaned into the warmth of his palm. Later you can chastise yourself for being weak, but right now all the energy in your body was sapped out of you. Your head heavy, you rested your weight into him. Again, his thumb wiped under your eye to get rid of the residue of his making.

Eyes slipped shut, you embraced the calm. Your skin prickled as his irises pierced into you, but you kept yourself ignorant. Lulled by his digit that carassed your cheekbone, your body collapsed.

Or it would have if his hand didn’t slither its way to your nape.

Screaming out in agony, your hands jerk to relieve the pain on your scalp. The chain jiggled in a mocking tone, as you peer up at Levi. Hand wrapped firmly in your hair, his knees cracked as he nimbly got back up to his feet. Bound, there was no way for you to comfortably accommodate him dragging you by your hair.

“Stop it!” Hiccuping hurt your chest.

He said nothing as he lugged you through the yard. More pleas fell from your mouth, varying in pitch. Perfectly cut and watered grass scraped against your skin. The blades pricked at you.

From under you, your feet pathetically kicked. You attempted to twist your body out of his grasp, but it only put more pressure onto your burning scalp. As much as it pained you, it would hurt less to cease fighting. You have no clue how much more your body could take.

With the angle all you could see was the bright blue skies above you. The merry color mocked you. With a thud, Levi dropped your body onto the ground. The wind was knocked out of you as you landed harshly on your back and therefore your hands. Luckily, your fingers were tucked away into a fist or else surely you would have broken one.

Coughing, you turn on your side to see where Levi stopped at. In the ground were two red, metal doors. He gripped the two handles and ripped them open with little effort. Leading down into the dark were a set of concrete stairs.

Going back to you, he leaned back down to grab your hair but you screamed once more.

“G-get away from me! Don’t touch me, you fucking freak.”

Levi grabbed you by the arm and forced you up, now kneeling where he had been to open the heavy doors.

He sneered, “As you wish.”

Dropping your arm, he offered you little relief before shoving his foot into your side and kicking you down the stairs. A gasp stuck in your throat as your body flew down the stairs like a ragdoll. The rough material scratched your exposed skin. Your shoulders took the brunt of your fall. Landing at the bottom, your head smacked against the hard ground. The wound on your temple reopened, mixing with the blood dribbling from the back of your head.

Discombobulated, your eyes dragged to Levi standing at the top of the stairway. For a moment, you thought he was going to shut the doors and leave you here to rot, but his form got closer and closer. His feet smacked against the concrete. It could be your vision or throbbing head, but you swore the basement shook with every step he took.

He stopped midway, to turn and shut the rusted doors. They closed with a resonating screech and rattle. With a boom, you were wrapped in darkness once more. In the black, Levi's presence swarmed you. Every sound he made amplified.

Step, step, step, step.

Thin metal scraping together pierced your ears before a light buzzed on. Squinting one eye, a dangling lightbulb flicked on. Releasing the tiny, metal chain, it swung in the air.

Around you was a normal basement. To the right, a work bench sat along with welding tools, a cutting table for wood, and a portable, steel set of drawers. On the other side was a lawnmower, weedwacker and a bunch of old furniture. A little further away stood a door. Must be the way into the main part of the house.

A musk clung to the air. A type of musk that sunk deep into the concrete walls, thick with moisture from being underground. Wrinkling your nose, you kept Levi in your sight. While you were observing your surroundings he had spawned right next to you.

“Don’t run.”

You wanted to laugh. How could you with the state you were in? Even if freed from your restraints, you don’t think you could stand up straight. Him justling you to sit on your butt was enough to trigger your gag reflex. Biting your tongue, you will down the urge to vomit.

Reaching behind you, Levi unfurled your bindings behind your back. Sagging in relief, without thought you leaned your forehead against his shoulder. He tensed for a moment, but offered nothing more than that.

Fuck, you were more spent than you thought.

The leather cuffs fell to the floor with a clunk. Next he went to your legs. Repeating the same motion of pulling the belts away from each other, you were freed.

Levi bent over to grab both cuffs. Wrapping an arm around your lower back, he hauled you over his shoulder. You wanted to protest, but the second hit to your head had done you in. The same arm that hauled you over, he kept tight around your thighs in case you squirmed. Him knowing it would only take one arm to pin you down was insulting.

His other hand he let dangle as he clutched onto the restraints. Levi could never leave anything untidy. He crossed the room towards the door you were eyeing. You crumpled further with the knowledge your punishment was over.

Or at least you hoped.

Upon opening the door, you were sadly mistaken. From your limited view point, there were no stairs leading you upwards into the house. Beneath you was a hardwood floor, a deeper hue than any other flooring in the house.

Levi’s shoes thumped against the ground as you tried to survey more of your surroundings. The room was dim, a soft lighting that would put you to sleep if under different circumstances. Tilting your head, through the bobbing there lined on the walls, dangling from black metal framing were an array of whips, canes and floggers.

In the middle of the room was a leather spanking bench that could fold in or out into a different shape. Off to the side sat a metal table, almost clashing with the rest of the room, with leather cuffs at the corners. Across the way, a rose velvet couch placed for what you could assume could be simply viewing pleasure. A hook hung from the wall. There was another door right in between the metal framing, slight ajar showcasing more restraints and ropes.

A fear never before bloomed inside you. He couldn’t be serious? What type of shit were these freaks into. You only got here, he couldn’t be actually thinking of punishing you like this. You thought this was over.

Whimpering, you kicked up a fuss, squirming on his shoulder. Knowing, your tantrum was coming, Levi clutched further onto your thigh. His heavy hand bruised the skin.

“Knock it off,” Levi sneered.

“W-what are you doing? I don’t like this, I’m scared.” You hoped making yourself smaller would appease him.

“You should be.”

Levi flung you onto the sliver, metal table, laying you on it horizontally so your head dangled off the edge. Your back arched at the cold biting your exposed skin. Quickly, you launched yourself to the side to crawl off the surface. Wrangling you back into place, he grabbed your right wrist and stretched to the cuff at the far end.

“Get off me, you prick!”

“Quiet,” He snapped and grunted when you went to knee him in the stomach. “Do you have a death wish?”

You ignored him to keep growling like a cornered, feral cat. Lifting his own knee up, Levi pinned your kicking leg down. The bone dug into your inner thigh. With aggravating dexterity, your wrist was shackled to the table. His head imposingly close to yours. Goosebumps fluttered on your neck from his heavy breath against it. Your left hand still free, you stupidly hit him repeatedly to the side of the head. Desperate to get him away from you and you out of this room.

He took it in stride like wrangling a wayward child. You hissed when the restraint pinched your skin with how tight he pulled it. Free of this task, Levi turned his side so his nose brushed against your cheekbone. As you went to hit him again, he clutched your hand mid air, lidded gaze on yours.

“I’m going to swallow you whole until nothing is left of you besides me.”

Dragging his nose up until it touched yours, he never let his eyes stray. Your chest heaved, the hand engulfed by his, struggled to escape.

“I hope you fucking choke.”

Your head whipped to the right at Levi’s knuckles hitting your cheek. Blood pooled in your mouth from the split lip. Turning back towards him with breakneck speed, you spit in his face. The pinky saliva landed right under his eye. He flinched back slightly with flared nostrils.

Upper lip twitching back in a restrained snarl, Levi wiped the bloody spit off his face and continued tying up your other arm. The leather whistled with how fast he tightened it. You grunted at it cutting off your circulation.

Clutching your jaw, he forced your head up even higher, straining your neck and shoulders, “You don’t get to complain, Bitch. I hear another peep out of you and I’ll beat you bloody.”

At that, he departed from your body and stomped off further into the room. You shake out your leg, already sore and bruises forming. Letting your body loose, your toes brush against the floor and your head lulls backwards. The blood rushed to your brain as you watched Levi swing the closet door further open, the whole room upside down. This definitely didn’t help your concussion, but that’s the least of your problems.

Blurrily you watched Levi come back to you, kicking the door shut with his foot. In his hands were black rope and something you couldn’t decipher. Apprehension squeezed your chest so hard, the tendons throbbed. Ignoring you, he unraveled the rope—the other he placed next to you on the table along with the mystery item—looping it around the metal ring right under where the cuff hung.

Silently, he grabbed your leg and stretched it out so he could wrap the rope around just above your knee. You twisted your body to kick Levi in the head, but he stopped with a firm grip on your ankle.

“Don’t make this worse for yourself.” His calm tone struck more terror in you than his gritted gripes. A passive Levi meant a scheming Levi.

Deep inside you wanted to try again, knock him out and release yourself of your binds. Yet you know you were no match for this man. So with a sniveling expression, you let your leg slack in his hold. He let you down and continued his intricate knots.

He moved the rope down your thigh, close to your groin and looped it three times. Your leg was bent so he could tie your ankle firmly to your thigh, unable to close yourself off to him. Three times it went, the velvety fabric digging into the supple flesh. The rest of the coiled fibers were tugged to the other corner securely.

Once done, the man tugged at his binds. Giving a nod, satisfied at his work. He repeated the motions with your other leg, your muscles stretched beyond their capabilities. Oh how you wanted to whimper and groan.

Completely at his mercy did you realize your ass hung slightly over the edge, at perfect distance for Levi’s crotch to line up with yours. You bit your lip so hard, blood pooled, terrified. You would rather deal with being drowned again than this. Anything but this.

Coming closer to you, Levi deposited his bulge against your vulnerable crotch. The way his cock hardened, mocking you. Reaching over, he swiped the unknown item in front of you.

A knife.

He had taken a knife from the closet. Instinct consumed your nervous system as you squirmed at your restraints. You whipped your head to your right cuff and tugged. Frantically you looked to the other in hopes this one could be looser. You then look at Levi with bouncing pupils.

“Please.”

A flick of a knife popping open was your response.

“Levi, please!” Your voice pitched into hysterics, but quickly stopped when he shoved the flat side of it in your open mouth.

Tugged the skin further out, your tongue retreated as further back as it could. The muscles tingled at the phantom sensation of being pricked.

“Look at you,” A hand larger and warmer than yours splayed across your chest. The slender fingers drummed to the rhythm of your heartbeat. Taunting you. “A sniveling, little puppy.”

He let you bask in your fear for one more moment before retracting the blade from your mouth. Drool dripped down from your lip.

“Messy,” He teased with no emotion.

Dragging the knife down the path of the drool, he trailed the end from your chin, to underneath it and down the curved line of your neck. Shivers wracked through your taut body. Further it traveled over your collarbone and to the strap of your shirt.

Tucking the sharp edge under the flimsy fabric, he barely tugged and it came undone. Dragging to the other side, he cut it off as well. The procedure was simply to antagonize you. You both knew he could easily rip the thin, damp fabric into pieces, but he wanted the anticipation. He craved and drank up how your body trembled for him. The man loved playing with his food.

Going back to the middle, he tugged the knife down the middle, slicing right through the shirt. Tugging the ruined clothes away, your torso left on display for him. Your nipples puckered at the exposed, cool air (along with being scared shitless).

Cruelly, he tapped the flat of the knife against your clothed slit, backing away from you to finish unwrapping his present. You flinched when the knife nicked your thigh as he cut away the chiffon shorts, taking your panties with it. The other side swiftly cut in half, too. Same with your shirt, your bottoms were tugged away from you and tucked somewhere else.

You were left bare for the man before you, towering over you once more. Your focus stayed on the knife. Levi clicked the knife closed and left it out where you could reach it. Not like you could grab it, anyway. The state of your undress was disproportionate to Levi’s fully clothed body.

Now free of any obstacles, the man slotted his body against yours again. His hand wandered to your breasts and thumbed the sensitive skin. A tingly shock of pleasure shot down to your core. Your body welcomed the soft touches after the grueling torment. Though, your brain screamed for him to leave you be.

“I like you like this,” His hand traveled down to your stomach, eyeing how it jumped, “belly up, submissive, pliant.”

Finally, a whimper broke loose.

Those silver irises bounced up at you. He said nothing to your noises, if anything he welcomed it. You would be screaming soon enough.

Impatient to start and to finish your punishment, the man lifted his shirt over his head and tossed it to the ever growing pile. He dropped his pants as well, no underwear under his slacks.

Tilting down your chin, your eyes widen at his cock. He wasn’t huge, but his size wasn’t anything to scoff at. What he lost in length, he made up in girth. The head slightly bigger, a deep red and drooling with pre-cum. Levi was also well groomed, not bare, but the hair trimmed close to the skin.

His physique could be god-like. You knew the man had muscles rippled through him, but not to this extent. He obviously worked out and trained his body as every inch the muscles flexed under his pale flesh. A dark happy trail led down to his cock.

Wandering downwards, his fingertips dipped in to brush against your clit. Your hips jumped.

“Sensitive.”

“Fuck you,” You spoke through bared teeth.

A yelp escaped. He slapped your pussy with little regard for you. When you squirmed away, he did it again, hitting right on your clit.

“You either moan or keep your shitty mouth shut.”

Scowling, you reluctantly obeyed. He hummed, soothed. For now. Going back to his previous action, his middle finger swirled against your clit. The nerves were swollen. Sensitive from his slaps. Your thighs twitched, begging to close. So confused on whether or not to welcome the pleasure.

A soft moan hung in the air. You weren’t supposed to enjoy this, but you were also scared of kicking up a fuss. The thought of him tearing into your pussy with no prep horrified you. You can fight another day, another time where it’s smart to.

Skillfully, Levi drifted down to your hole and pushed a finger in. A more drawn out moan came from your throat. More antsy than before, Levi added another finger, eager to stretch you out. As he pumped in and out of you, more wetness dripped out of your cunt onto the floor.

Deeming you stretched enough, he departed from your core with squelch. Unwantingly, you let out a disappointed whine.

“I don’t want to hear it. You’re lucky I even prepped you, fucking bitch in heat.”

Cock in hand, Levi positioned it at your pussy. You tensed as he bullied his way into your tight hole. Fuck, he did not prepare you enough. Your hips tried to arch away, but a strong hand forced you back down. Popping the whole cockhead in, you whimpered in pain.

Using both his hand and hips, he went further in. Your walls forcefully stretched to accommodate him. Thrusting deep, Levi pressed himself to the hilt. The hair of his happy trail tickled your clit. It offered no help to being stretched open past your limitations.

With fervor, he pulled out of you until it was only his head inside and slammed back in you. A gasp caught in your throat. Moving his hands to the ropes around your thighs, he used them as reins to fuck deeper and harder.

No regard for your own pleasure, Levi kept fucking into you so his pelvis bone smooshed into your thighs. Great, even more bruises. With all the shaking, your head started to pound and your vision blur. Each pound into your aching pussy, grunts poured from his mouth.

Shifting his hips upwards, he hit the spongy spot deep inside of you, eliciting a breathy whimper. Glancing at you, Levi kept his hips at that angle. He went back to how his cock drove in and out of your cunt. Fascinated by it wrapping and stretching around his length. He wanted to morph your walls into the shape of it, completely break you down.

“F-fuck,” Levi groaned.

Using you nothing more than a cocksleeve and seeing you finally settle the fuck down pulled him towards his release. Jerking the reins tighter, the rope pinched your thighs. Mouth slightly agape, his rhythm became sloppy, no longer caring for bringing you any type of enjoyment out of this.

Shortly, he shoved his cock deep. You screeched as he pushed against your cervix, a shiver going up your spine at the pain. That did him in. Dropping his head, he moaned and shot his hot release deep inside you.

You panted alongside him, completely unsatisfied. Delirious, you whined with teary eyes at not cumming.

Glaring at you from under his brows, Levi bit, “Are you that stupid? You think after everything you pulled I would nice to you.” He grabbed your jaw and curled you further in, your shoulders creaking, “You’re nothing more than a pet, a dog for me to beat until Erwin eventually gets bored of you. For both of us, you better hope it's soon.”

Half comprehending what he said, tears poured down and your eyes lost their focus. Slipping out of you, the warm cum dripped from your aching cunny and onto the floor.

Levi walked away from you to what you assumed was to clean up. Lulling your head back, you looked at the room upside down, letting the blood rush to your brain. From your blackening view, Levi came back to you.

He muttered something, but it didn’t matter. The world spinning around you was too much fun. Slipping your eyes closed, you let the fuzzy feelings of your concussed head overtake you. You really hope you are concussed and you passing out prompts you never waking up in this nightmare again. For the both of you.

#yandere x reader #yandere levi #levi x reader #levi smut #yandere levi x reader #yandere erwin #erwin x reader #yandere aot #yandere male

113 notes · View notes

ageless-aislynn · 8 months

Text

Title: “15 Minutes” (8/?) Author: @ageless-aislynn Characters/fandom: Master Chief John-117/Reader, Halo the series Summary: You've got work to do. John worries. Things get a little more intense. Series: How to date a Spartan (without even trying) Rating: T (PG13) Length: 1,945 (this chapter, 19,693 total so far) Spoilers/warnings: Set in the Silver Timeline of Halo the series, not the games or novels. Though we began with the events of Halo 1x06, there will be no more show spoilers. We are still firmly seated in the AU Warthog, merrily driving out to places where there’s only a passing nod to canon. 😉 Disclaimer: Definitely not mine but I do enjoy borrowing them just for a bit! 😉 A/N: Text is both here in this post or available at AO3, however you like to read. Halo season 2 has finally arrived! However, this fic continues to zip along in the AU Party Warthog, so, while we began with season 1 way back when (and you'll see a few more things from s1 along the way 😉), we'll not be venturing into s2 territory at all. Unless s2 is going to take some verrrrry interesting twists, lol! Chapter 9 is still in progress by hand but I hope to have it ready soon. 🤞😣🤞The next chapter will also see us entering into some hurt/comfort for a bit but I tend to lean heavier on the comfort, in case you're worried. Or, you know, would be disappointed. 😉 If you read, I hope you enjoy! ⭐💖⭐

Taglist: @pinheadbanger @mysardencut @laurenstacy610 @sporadicbelievernightmare @ultrablackwidower @bxmxtx @jellotherelol

If you would like to be tagged in my John/Reader fics, just let me know! I also write John/Kai, John/Cortana and Kai/male Reader, so I’m glad to tag you for whatever you’d like. If you would like to be removed from the taglist, also feel free to let me know, no harm, no foul. 😉 💖

Halo fic masterlist ⭐

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

The Troop Transport Warthog hit a particularly rough patch and you held on for all you were worth to keep from being ejected.

"Sarge," Private Taylor yelled. "Where are we?"

"That's need to know and none of you need to know, marine," Sarge shouted back from the passenger seat. "Just keep your head down, do your job, and you'll be home 15 minutes before your mama has breakfast on the table."

You couldn't particularly tell if it were dusk, dawn or high noon, the air was so heavy with the greasy remains of mortar rounds. In the distance, a nondescript cityscape occasionally flared with either continuing pockets of active combat or just the remnants of the devastation that had passed through.

Wherever you were, it felt like you were barreling at top speed through a graveyard of vehicles: Warthogs, Mongeese and even the odd Scorpion, some overturned, blackened and smoldering, others weirdly intact as if their drivers had merely stepped away for a moment.

This was a salvage and recovery mission, tasking your unit with marking vehicles as repairable, recyclable or a total loss to be abandoned.

The next hour or so, that had been your focus, moving from Warthogs and the occasional Mongoose, conducting a quick evaluation, then using your spray gun to mark a green circle on the hood to send back to Reach for repair, a white slash to send it to be stripped for usable parts or a red X to abandon, not worth salvaging.

You marked a Mongoose with a red X, though the gun sputtered and you had to give it a few whacks before it sprayed properly, then you moved on.

Next up was a Warthog that seemed in decent condition from the outside, short of the rear antenna twisted until it resembled a curly tail. But the electronics were fried and the entire undercarriage looked like it had plowed over a series of flaming spikes, all major parts gouged out and burned. There might have been a few nuts and bolts reclaimable but since you'd just recently been writing up requisition for needed parts, you judged that it was more effort than it was worth.

You made the call to abandon it but as you tried to spray the red X across the hood, nothing emerged, even after shaking the sprayer and giving it a few more hits with the heel of your palm. With a slightly frustrated noise -- who was checking to make sure that the sprayers were in working order before they were sent out? -- you headed to get a replacement. Along the way, you caught a private going in the opposite direction.

"Hey, see that 'hog there? Would you red X it for me? Thanks."

"Um, sure," the blond man said and headed where you gestured.

You were still looking for somebody who had a spare sprayer when Sarge drove up in the Troop Transport again.

"Wrap it up, it's about to get hot," he shouted.

You quickly joined the rush back to board the Pelican and scrambled into a seat just as it lifted off. A split-second after you'd clicked the restraint down, the Pelican rolled to one side, shuddering from an impact.

Alarms began blaring, mixed in with the pilot calling out coordinates, and you automatically tried to look forward, as if you'd somehow be able to spot what was shooting at you. All you could really see was the anxious faces of the other marines around you. You spared a couple of breaths to be glad that neither Maria or Jamie had been called in for this.

The Pelican took a second, more glancing blow and the resulting shudder rattled your teeth.

"Covvies?" somebody asked over the engine whine and the private across from you shrugged.

"Who else?" she said. "But that felt like surface-to-air to me. What about you?"

She met your eyes and it was your turn to shrug. "I'm not sure. Never been hit by any sort of missile before."

"Oh well, congratulations on your first missile salvo," she returned with a crooked grin.

The Pelican rolled once more, this time in an evasive maneuver, then thankfully smoothed out and made its escape without further incident.

Your unit was taken to the covert off-world depot known colloquially as The Pit, where everything that had been marked for repair or recycle would be delivered for further sorting. In the center of the large warehouse area was a compactor pit for all of the scrap to be sent into. Several cranes were already busy moving the smaller vehicles like Warthogs and Mongeese into berths to be stripped down while the still operational vehicles were lining up to be loaded onto heavy transport carriers to be returned to base.

You finished stripping your second Warthog for salvageable parts and signaled the nearest lift operator. The clawlike crane clamped onto the 'hog's shell, picking it up and carrying it towards the compactor while you moved on to a Mongoose with a crumpled left rear wheel.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a Warthog with a particularly distinctive twisted rear antenna being dropped off into the line to be loaded up and returned to FLEETCOM.

Frowning, you wove your way through the other mechanics, avoiding the occasional flying part, and found a green circle sprayed onto the hood.

Shit, the private must've heard me wrong when I told him to red X it. It seemed like an odd mistake to make but things had been hectic.

You grabbed a sprayer and neutralized the green and sprayed over it with a red X, then went to the nearest crane operator.

"You see that 'hog with the X on it? Drop it in the line for the compactor, please."

"Got it," the woman said and you waited until she'd picked it up and deposited it appropriately before you returned to work.

You were elbows into a Gauss 'hog's engine bay when you heard your rank and name called. Looking up, your heart gave a little skip: John in full helmeted Mjolnir strode your way with thundering steps you could hear even over the rest of the cacophony.

"With me," he said tersely, passing by and disappearing through a doorway at the back of the warehouse.

You had to hustle to catch up and he had already stopped by the time you joined him in the otherwise empty hallway. He turned, removing his helmet with a slight pneumatic hiss.

"Are you okay?" you both said at the same time.

The angle of the hallway meant you were shielded from most of the work floor. He set his helmet down and very carefully took your hands in his gloved ones.

"Insurgents took the field," he said, looking you over from head to toe. "Did you see combat? Intel was unclear."

"No, we got out but the Pelican took a few shots. Somebody said it felt like surface-to-air but I didn't remember Covenant using anything like that. It was insurgents, then?"

He nodded distractedly, glancing away to mutter, "I'll be right there." Then he looked back to you. "I have to go. Your unit's being sent back to Reach but if they divert you into combat..."

He trailed off, clearly realizing there was no way to finish that sentence the way he wanted.

"Tell them, nah, I'd rather not, thanks?" Your mouth twitched and you squeezed his fingers.

He gave a resigned chuckle. "Yeah, try that, please."

"You're the one who'll be much more in the thick of it," you pointed out. "You be careful, okay?"

"Always try," he said, bringing your hands up to press a kiss to the back of both.

Kai leaned around the door, her visor glinting green. "Chief, sorry but we've got to go."

"Copy that." He released you with clear reluctance and picked up his helmet. "Stay safe. I'll see you soon."

He vanished through the doorway and you took a breath, exhaling slowly. John suddenly appeared right in front of you again, leaning down to cup your face in one hand.

You were just about to ask if something was wrong when he kissed you.

For a moment, for forever, the universe shrank to just the two of you, his mouth on yours, a little frantic at first, then slowing, steadying out.

You felt like you were hovering off the ground and then realized you were; he'd picked you up at some point, pressing you gently to his chest plate. Your hand dropped to the 117 etched near his heart and it was gritty with sand and dirt. You were both grimy and sooty but it didn't matter. It couldn't have been more perfect if you were in a flowing ballgown and him in a tux, slowly spinning together on a glittering palace floor.

He set you back onto your feet but you only parted a breath away from each other.

"I... I'll get better with practice," he mumbled.

You smiled at him, feeling wobbly, lightheaded and more grounded than you'd ever been before, all at the same time. "John, if you were any better at that, I'd have to show you how fast I can get a Spartan out of their Mjolnir with my bare hands."

He was near enough to see his pupils dilate and that was incredibly gratifying. "I'll hold you to that," he said, his voice dropping an entire octave, making your toes literally curl inside your boots.

Then he put his helmet back on and left. You took a moment to compose yourself, then exited as well. There was no sign of Silver Team. No doubt, the Pelican waiting for him had taken off the second he'd boarded.

Cutting through the busy deck, you looked for any vehicle marked with a white stripe, still waiting to be stripped. On an impulse, you diverted to the line being dropped one at a time into the compactor. There was no sign of the curly tailed Warthog.

It could've already been compacted, you were thinking when you saw it going by overhead, clutched in a crane claw and heading back towards the line to return to Reach.

You didn't stop to think, you sprinted for the crane's operator booth. "Hey, put that 'hog down!"

The operator looked at you and you realized in a burst that it was the blond man you'd originally told to mark it with the red X back on the battlefield, who'd apparently designated it instead to come back to The Pit.

No, to go back to FLEETCOM.

Recognition went across his face at the same moment and he bolted from the booth. The lift automatically stopped, the Warthog swaying over the crowded deck.

You knew. You just knew.

You ran as fast as you could and slammed the alarm on the wall. "Bomb!" you bellowed over the shrill klaxon. "Bomb! Clear out!"

Jumping into the operator booth and grabbing the controls, you quickly scanned the area as marines scattered everywhere. There was only one place you could think to go.

You swung the arm around, guiding the curly tailed 'hog firmly clasped in its grip towards the compactor pit. It felt like it was taking a year to get there but you couldn't release the controls or the safety would bring it once more to a stop. Once the Warthog was finally in position, you opened the grip.

What if I'm wrong? you thought as it began to fall. I'll feel like such a fool if--

There was a saying that if you were close enough to an explosion, you would never actually hear it.

It was true.

end note:

If you want to, you know, imagine that Sarge's full name is, sayyyyyy, Avery Johnson, well then, who am I to tell you that you're right or wrong? 😇

If you don't know the Troop Transport Warthogs, here's one in action from Halo: Reach. It's on the level "ONI: Sword Base" and is scripted to be destroyed but there's a way to save it and the marines in it and take it with you for a great deal of the rest of the level! I love saving the Troop 'hog, even if it always still looks like it's on fire. Nah, it's fiiiiiine, no worries! 😎👍😂😉

#halo #halo the series #halo paramount+#master chief x reader #x reader #john-117 x reader #fic: 15 minutes #series: how to date a spartan without even trying #ageless aislynn #aislynn's fics #aislynn's fic

40 notes · View notes

tookerthetookiest · 2 years

Text

Diluc x Reader

SAGAU - Self Aware Genshin AU (kinda??)

You were casually doing your daily's in Genshin Impact, but a weird quest you had never seen before appeared as your last one. It was near the gate area next to the Angel Share's Tavern. 'Weird, I don't remember ever seeing this commission before' you thought to yourself, but proceeded to do it anyway. When you teleported your way over to the area, not a single NPC was there, not even an enemy. Your PC/Mobile/Game Console was starting to run the game poorly so maybe that's why.

Finally an option came up to accept the quest from an NPC, but before said NPC could load in, if there even was one to begin with, you already clicked to accept it. Your screen turned black and you leaned in to get a closer look. Only to be sucked into your screen. Faint images flashed before your eyes, memories perhaps? Whatever they were, they stopped in an instant leaving you to drift off into a slumber.

Now onto Diluc, the owner of the Angel Share's Tavern and the largest wine industry in teyvat. Who also happened to live the life of a vigilante, moving in the shadows at night, protecting mondstat's citizens.

His nightly patrol was moving along splendidly, until he came across a figure cloaked in white, laying on the floor of the gate near to his tavern. Approaching with caution, he crept up to the figure. Upon closer inspection, it was a person, though a tall person. Like extremely tall. Near to them was a crown of sorts, more in the form of a halo.

He couldn't just leave them like this, it may pose as a threat in the future, who knows. Mustering all the strength he could, Diluc lifted the person and dragged them back to his mansion. The halo- crown came following after which rose his suspicions, who could this person be?

After a long journey, which would've been much easier if it weren't for your height, Diluc put you in a spare bedroom and chained your right hand to the bed so you won't escape if you were a threat.

You slept well into the afternoon that day, under the supervision of Diluc. The chains clinked, alerting diluc. He watched you with caution as you rose from your position while rubbing your eyes. "Who are you?" Diluc asked, alerting you as you were unaware he was there. "I..." Though you barely spoke a word, your voice already sounded calm and gentle, easing Diluc's nerves but he didn't let his guard down. "I am the creator of this land" you answered almost as if you don't know. In truth you actually didn't, you were doing dailys like 5 mins ago, now you're here.

"Creator? How am I supposed to believe them?" Diluc thought. "I don't really know how to get you to believe me honestly." You answered his thoughts. "How did you do that!?" Diluc said shocked. "Do what? I just heard what you said" you got a good look at him after you said that, he resembles Diluc but there's no way that could be possible.... Right?? "But I thought it I didn't say it" "Oh, weeelll does that prove I'm the creator??" He sighed, "Listen, until I get more proof that you are the 'creator' you're going to stay in this room." As he said that the shackles holding you simply fell off after you touched it while examining it. "Look! More proof!" You exclaimed. "Just.... Don't leave the room then i guess." He began to walk out the room until you spoke up "Wait, what's your name?" "Diluc Ragnvindr" With that he left, trusting you would stay.

Diluc????? FROM THE HIT GAME GENSHIN IMPACT???? Were you in Genshin??? How is that even possible? You sat there with your thoughts wondering how this happened. You began to realize it was all because of that quest you accepted but still, how? You began recalling the memories, you remember creating teyvat and everything on it, including the archons and the magic in this world. But you never did those, or maybe you did. Is this a dream or was the life you had before a dream? You continued to ponder late into the night, so late that you got to see Diluc walk home. You found comfort in knowing there are recognizable faces and people you could trust. Diluc made his way to your room to ensure you were still there and to his surprise you were.

He slowly began to trust you more as the days went by, talking to you whenever he had the time to, he found that to be the best part of his day. Though telling him that he was in a video game seemed like something you shouldn't do, it felt as though a balance would tip if you did. Soon you were given permission to explore the surrounding forrest though not to far so you wouldn't get lost. Everytime Diluc was away you would explore, none of the animals feared you and you even found out you could talk to them. One day you were playing around with your animal friends and lost track of time, huddling up together with them and falling asleep. Diluc searched the whole area for you when he didn't find you waiting for him like usual. When he found you he was so relieved but a bit concerned when he saw the wolves around you napping.

You enjoyed your time with the animals, but one day as you play with boars, you wandered closer and closer to springvale. Unknown to you, that was the day hunters came out to look for boars. Peacefully you ran about with the creatures you called friends when a screech of pain took you out of your leisurely trance. You hurried over to the boar that got caught in a trap, quickly releasing it with your strength. "I heard something get caught over there!" You heard in the distance. Healing the boar of its injuries you stood up searching to see where the shout came from. All the boars began telling you 'run! run! ' and so you did. You ran but the sounds of some boars getting shot down stopped you, you hide behind a tree and watched as the injured boars got tied up to be carried away. In ones final moments it told you to get away quick, though you have the power to help, you know better than to disrupt the natural way of life. So you ran again, but a hunter saw you some of them shouted 'look catch it!' but they couldn't catch up to you, your height gave you a big advantage. You ran all the way back to the winery, holding back tears for the loss of your friends.

Diluc came back ready to talk to you, his day was tiring and he desperately needed to hear your voice. Though his own stress disappeared when he heard your sobs. He had never seen you cry, you were always so calm and happy. He rushed over to you holding onto your arms "what happened!? What's wrong!?" "H-hunters killed my fr-friends" you cried. " Who were they. " He asked with rage, though he himself didn't know those creatures the sight of you this way filled him with rage. "Diluc please, i-it was just the way things must be, if i intervened it w-would not help anything. " He cooled down and just sat with you. You lost family before in the other world, this seemed to feel like the same thing." I know the feeling of loss... " Diluc began to tell you about his father and brother. You already knew though, so you kinda just sat there. You heard his lore so many times before at this point hearing someone say it back left you unfazed, but coming from him with the look of distraught on his face, you couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

The next day Diluc went to the tavern, the night went on as usual until some hunters came in talking about a figure dressed in white. He became suspicious and listened in on their conversation. "It was huge! Atleast 8ft tall!" The surrounding hunters gasped and asked for more information." It was in full white clothes! It looked so majestic!!" " Maybe it was hunting our boars, alot have gone missing recently. " Another hunter suggested." You may be right, we should capture it to make sure it isn't a threat. " Diluc was shocked, he wanted to argue with them, but that would cause a scene. He didn't want to put you in more danger, so he kept to himself.

He went straight to you that night, "You're no longer allowed to leave the winery" he said assertively. "And why not?" "Can't you read minds?" "Ugh, so what if hunters are after me, I can protect myself!" you defended. "I just don't want you getting hurt!" He retorted. That was the first time you fought. He got to annoyed of the arguing and simply got up and left. Leaving you pissed, maybe you should just leave, prove that you can indeed protect yourself.

The morning after, Diluc didn't even bother going into your room, not wanting to see you both argue again. Though if he did, he wouldn't have found you. You had left to go explore the wilderness, though trouble found you quicker than expected. Treasure horders, they were surrounding you "Hey aren't some hunters from springvale looking for a creature like that." One asked "Yup, and im sure they'll pay a hefty price for it, we'll probably make more money off of that thing than those boars." They moved closer to you, readying their weapons. You thought of a plans to escape, watching as one rushed forward. Blowing a gust of anemo his way, you took it as your chance to run. Before you could make it far, a treasure horder threw a bottle infused with pyro at your feet. With not enough time to react, you stepped in it, falling to the ground in the process. Healing the burn with hydro, you rose a wall of geo to protect yourself for a short time. One began pounding away at the wall with a hammer and almost got through.

You fought well into the afternoon, no matter now many of them you got rid of they just kept coming. You were growing tired, only putting up a sheild to protect yourself as you wait for someone to help you. Diluc finally decided enough was enough, he had to talk with you and atleast negotiate something. "Y/N, listen-" he opened the door to your room, quickly noticing you weren't there. "Y/N!" Shouting frantically as he searched around for you. Finally he realized you left, he wanted to believe you were safe, but he just had to find you. It was to late to get someone to help him, so he had to look for you alone. He ran through the forrest searching for any signs of you, even if just a strand of hair.

He almost gave up until he heard the sounds of treasure horders fighting something in the distance. Creeping up towards them, noticing they were surrounding something. The more he looked, he noticed a white robe and the halo- crown you wore. He finally found you! But not in the way he hoped, you looked worn out so he had to act fast. You were about to let your sheild down for your energy was just to low until a flame emerged from behind the treasure horders. While they were distracted you summoned a gust of wind to send them flying into the air, then escaping behind some bushes. You noticed a familiar mop of red hair, rushing through the treasure horders. Regaining some of your strength you ran towards him. He came looking for you and how glad were you that he did.

The treasure horders began to seem less and less but instead of fighting them to the very end, Diluc decided to take you and run back to the winery. "Y/N let's go!" He shouted to you, dashing into nearby bushes with you casting a wall of geo to block your escape. You both ran until you got the the winery, panting and gasping as you slowed down to catch your breath. "Are you ok?" Both of you asked at the same time, a small laugh erupting from you both. "I'm fine, I'm more worried about you though" Diluc said. "Don't worry, I'll be fine" Standing there, looking at eachother with fondness for one another. Diluc walked up to you and hugged you, sinking into your larger frame. You we're so comforting, so warm, he could surely get used to this feeling.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Finally my first fanfic of the year (even if it's pretty late). Its not really my favorite, there's alot that I just realized I could change, though I've been busy and I'm still very busy so I doubt I'll have time to fix it 😞.

Anyways, I'm open for requests! Send me any character along with what you want in your fanfic!

Have a good morning, evening or night! 🌃☀️🌅

#genshin impact x reader #genshin diluc x reader #gi diluc #genshin diluc #diluc x reader #diluc #diluc sagau #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin fluff

120 notes · View notes

sooinbloom · 8 months

Text

The Kingdom of Us

Chapter 5

pairing: kyungsoo x OFC genre: Royal!AU, nonidol!soo, crownprince!kyungsoo, romance, drama theme: arranged marriage, modern royalty, enemies to lovers, war, betrayal, eventual smut word count: 4,920 description: Alina finally opens up to Kyungsoo, while Kyungsoo takes a chance and shows another side of himself to Alina. warnings: mature themes, mentions of sex, mentions of SA, non consensual sex, abuse, minors DNI

author’s note: hello dear friend! Thank you so much for being so patient and so lovely. I am very proud of the next few chapters, I worked really hard to give you the absolute best. Also, dear reader, this chapter does contain mentions of SA. I will NEVER include any details, however if what this chapter contains is upsetting to you, please look for the red asterisk (*) that signifies the beginning and end of the description so it can be skipped over. I don’t want anyone to be uncomfortable when reading my stories. Please take care of yourselves, your mental health matters more to me than a read. Photos are not mine, dividers by @saradika-graphics . please enjoy this chapter.

ALINA

“Aren’t you so pretty? Who’s my pretty girl?”

“No… No! Please, don’t do this!” I beg and frantically claw at my faceless attacker. I can sense who he is, I know the scent of his expensive cologne and the pressure of his hands holding me down. He’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. I try everything to get out from under him. Any time my hands met the fog that was the face, it would take shape again of the monster that tortured me every single night. A slap stings my cheek, and a hand crushes my windpipe. Pain spirals all over my body and I regret fighting in the first place, it only meant it would get worse from here.

“Stay there, Pretty. It’s our little secret. Princess, you’re so pretty…”

I scream in bed and desperately take in my surroundings to make sure that I’m not in my bedroom in Valencia. The scent of vanilla and bergamot accompanied with the minimalist, muted decor assures me that I’m in Seoul. The pressure squeezes my chest and my trembling hands clutch the sheets close to my body, my lungs desperate for oxygen. The vice in my chest tightens as I frantically attempted to gain control of my breathing. Tears sting my eyes as the walls cave in around me. The door bursts open and my eyes slowly adjust to the light filtering in from my common room, a halo forms around the silhouette of a man.

Kyungsoo.

“Princess, what happened? Why are you screaming?!” He rushes toward me and I jump back, trying all that I can to comfort my trembling on my own. I can’t feel him gather me in his arms. If there was a way to cure this dizziness, I’d take it in an instant because the whole room spinning is messing with my head. I grip Kyungsoo’s elbows tight, trying to come back to earth. The separation began between my mind and body to the point that I watched myself from another point of view. Colors blur and blend together, sounds muffle and any touch can’t be felt until my entire world was abstract and distorted. I was vulnerable, something I never wanted to be in front of him.

“Hey, hey… Shhh…” Kyungsoo’s velvety rich voice slowly brings the balance back to my body. In my weakened state, I curl into his arms and sob. My maids rush into the room and stop short at the sight of Kyungsoo. They bow their heads out of obedience and I bury my head in Kyungsoo’s chest. “Where are Princess Alina’s guards?”

Guards? I’m supposed to have guards?

“Your Highness… There were no guards assigned to this wing of the palace.” A maid nervously responds with her head down. Kyungsoo’s muscles tense and he grips me tighter.

“What in the hell do you mean there’s no guards?”

“It was at Her Royal Highness Queen Hyunae’s command that her chambers have additional guards, Your Grace.” The other maid squeaked. I’ve had no guards this entire time?

“Princess Alina needs guards just as much as anyone else in this palace does! Please, leave us. If there are no guards, I will guard her myself.” He growls. His hand strokes my hair and settles on the back of my head.

“But Your…”

“Go, now. That is an order.” Kyungsoo bellows, his voice reverberating against my cheek. As soon as the door closes, Kyungsoo settles on the bed in front of me and fastens his hands on my arms. I float back down into my body, the head rush of consciousness coming back to me. Every time I woke from the nightmares, I floated above myself until I felt nothing. I chased that feeling, it’s what kept me safe from the panic attacks. Being suspended in nothing felt better than feeling every ache of the past. Then Kyungsoo came along and invaded my senses. He was real. His presence forces me to feel. The things he makes me feel are foreign, confusing and at the same time so welcomed. I don’t know what to do with that.

“Princess, what happened? Did you see something outside? Are you hurt?” Kyungsoo asks while gently touching my face. I look into his eyes and search for the motive. Why is he here? Why is he touching me like he cares about me? I can’t do anything else but stare at him and do my best to control my breathing. I rapidly shake my head and put my head down. “Was it a nightmare?”

“Yes.” I utter under uneasy breaths. Kyungsoo peers at me as if he’s losing himself in his own thoughts. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Princess. I’m glad I was nearby,” Kyungsoo assures in a low tone. “You have these a lot, don’t you?”

“Every night, if I can sleep.” I wearily reply. Kyungsoo doesn’t say a word, he just holds me. His touch soothes the ache within me and brings a sense of security. I am so dumbfounded at the calming affect this man has on me. Even in my anxiety-filled haze, the confusion pulls me in so many directions. It’s the same song and dance, the same questions over and over. I take a breath and look down at our hands, his thumbs rub soft lines across my white knuckles. With each caress, I loosen my grip on the sheets. I’m sure that the exhaustion starts talking with what comes out of my mouth.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Kyungsoo assures me with soothing words as he sits behind me. He kicks off his shoes, takes off his suit jacket and guides my head to rest on his chest. I don’t know what is going on with him, but it’s a very vast and sudden change from just this week alone. His fingers stroke my hair and his heartbeat creates a lullaby that starts lulling me to a calm state. My heavy eyes close while my mind focuses on each slow breath Kyungsoo takes. He inhales sharply and his lips imprint a kiss on my head. He must think I can’t hear him, but the truth seeps out of his mouth like honey.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me, Princess. I’m a jerk for being so horrible to you. We have not been made more acquainted due to my own stubbornness. Darling, you awakened something in me the moment we kissed. Baekhyun says I should accept these feelings. I’m doing my best, Princess. Please be patient with me… Because I want to know what it’s like to love you.”

Kyungsoo wants to fall in love with me. He, of all people, wants to fall in love with me. He won’t want to for much longer, especially not after he learns the truth. I have to tell him before he finds out the situation on his own.

When I woke up the next morning, two royal guards were outside of my door and Kyungsoo was nowhere in sight. Did I hallucinate the entire thing? It’s possible. I changed from my pajamas to an A line cream-colored dress as maids prepared my things for the trip to the Capital Castle. Kyungsoo and I were making our official public appearance today for our Engagement Celebration ahead of the Ball. My thoughts are dilapidated like the aftermath of a hurricane, I don’t know what’s gotten into Kyungsoo and it’s useless to try and figure it out at this point. I barely finished my makeup when a maid enters my room.

“The car is here, Your Highness. The Crown Prince is waiting for you.”

“Thank you, I’ll be there shortly.” I smile graciously. I check my hair and dress one more time and leave the comfort of my room. The thought of Kyungsoo staying with me all night kept flashing in my mind. His gentle words tingle my skin and the memory of his arms holding me close to his chest are stuck in my head. What was odd to me was that he was on the top floor of the palace. He has never been up there, at least for as long as I’ve been here. I see Kyungsoo waiting for me in front of the car, and there’s no denying that he looks devilishly handsome. One of my weaknesses has now become his tailored suits, this navy-colored one in particular. His hair is slicked back and a soft smile greets me.

“Good morning, Princess. You look lovely today.” What in the hell is going on?

“Good morning. As do you, your Grace.” I say coolly. Kyungsoo opens the door for me and we sit across from each other in silence. His eyes drift up from his phone to me a few times and then a sigh escapes his lips after a few minutes.

“Were you comfortable with last night?” Kyungsoo asks.

“It was awkward at first, but I appreciated it. The… Attention is new for me. I also didn’t know I was supposed to have guards. I haven’t had them from the beginning.”

“As of this morning, that changed. I had a very long discussion with my mother about her poor decision making and she will be formally apologizing to you. From now on, you will not only have the standard protocol for guards, but you’ll also have double.” Kyungsoo assures me.

“Crown Prince, you don’t have to do all of this.” I mutter nervously.

“Why do you keep saying that, Princess?” Kyungsoo inquires, suspicion in his voice.

“It’s because…”

“We have arrived, Your Highnesses.” The driver announces, I’m grateful because our greetings to the subjects just bought me more time.

“We’ll talk later, Your Grace.” I reply shakily. Kyungsoo takes my hand and laces our fingers together. He holds it tighter than before but I don’t mind it. He takes the first step out of the car and leads me to stand at his side. His arm wraps around my waist, taking liberties I’d only prayed about before but now don’t know what to make of them.

“Ready to meet our subjects, Princess?”

I nod silently and take in the sights around me, and the loud shouts of the people celebrating our engagement in the streets. The Engagement Celebration was in full swing, Seoul gave their people the day off to observe such an important event. A Royal Wedding can boost morale during a time full of tension and uncertainty. People were gathered for miles to see our arrival downtown. The Capital Castle stood so regally amongst the high-rise buildings in the Downtown District of Seoul. I marvel at the reds and greens of the paint, the massive curving in the roof’s high towers and the gold etchings and statues greeting us at the fortress gate. Despite being in the center of the chaotic city, it was tranquil.

We wave to the sea of people cheering and shouting our names. Kyungsoo gripped my waist tighter as we greeted some of the subjects, the women coo at how “protective” he is. These royal greetings are exciting, and the warm welcome soothed any uncertainty that I’ve had about the people not approving of me.

“You’re doing great.” Kyungsoo encourages me, in a tone that’s low enough for only me to hear. We make our way inside the castle and go straight to the balcony. There was an undeniably enigmatic feeling around the castle. It’s fascinating to see Seoul citizens waving my Kingdom’s flag with theirs. Will they continue to support me? I don’t want to let all of these people down. The pressure feeds my anxiety, I shake it off and focus on the moment with Kyungsoo by my side.

The kiss changed everything. It was liberating. Kyungsoo meant it, I know he did. The imprint of his lips still remained on mine. It was so hard to fully surrender my heart to him, he never gave me a reason to trust him. Kissing him was fun and elating but I didn’t understand where this sudden change came from, or why he wants to fall in love with me. His late-night confession left me even more confused than what I was before.

There was no telling how much I desired to feel his lips on mine again. To hear his voice as he whispers softly to me. I craved him more than I ever had before because of the taste he’d given me.

We step out and the crowds cheer for us. We wave and greet our subjects, Kyungsoo secures his hand on my back. His fingers trace small circles, a soothing touch for the overwhelming screaming and cheering of the people below us. He leans close to my ear, whispering sweetly with a smile. “They love you, Princess.”

I smile and hope that our subjects will still have a liking toward me as time goes on. We spend a few more minutes greeting the massive crowds and return back inside. An awkward beat passes, and I know I’m putting off the inevitable. Kyungsoo steps in front of me and my thoughts come to a halt. “What do you have to tell me, Princess? We were interrupted when we arrived.”

I don’t know if I’m ready to tell you. “I…”

“Come on, let’s go to my chambers. We can speak there.”

“I don’t know how to say it, I just know I have to before our betrothal goes any further. First, I want to apologize for how you found me last night. I wasn’t expecting your kindness, Crown Prince. Though, there is something that has been following me around that unfortunately caught up with me. I prefer that you heard the truth from me, and you can… Deal with it however you see fit.” I mumble nervously as we walk to Kyungsoo’s chambers. Hesitation tries to weigh down my steps but Kyungsoo takes me by the hand. We walk from the common room to his bedroom and he shuts the door.

“What are you talking about?” Kyungsoo crosses his arms. My eyes start to water and I try to turn away but Kyungsoo stops me. I shamefully turn to face him, shrinking smaller and smaller the more he looks at me. He sits on the bed and I stay standing without letting go of his hands. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Princess.”

“Last night was the first time I’ve had a decent night’s sleep in I don’t know how long. There was something there between us that I can’t describe, Crown Prince. But… I can’t fully give myself to this betrothal. I can’t let you or anyone else in. I’m… Scared all of the time.”

"Of what? Is it Prince Gustavo? If it is I’ll…”

I chew at my lip and won't meet Kyungsoo's gaze. Tears streak my cheeks and the numbness starts to begin. "No, not Prince Gustavo. It’s… King Daniel."

"King Daniel? Why?" I hear the words fall out of Kyungsoo’s mouth like gravel, his jaw tensely. His tone makes my chest ache. I instantly regret saying anything at all.

"It’s… The King is the reason why I can’t sleep. I'm unclean, Your Highness." I mutter, letting go of Kyungsoo’s hands.

"Unclean? That's not possible." Kyungsoo crosses his arms, his voice adopting a softer cadence. I can’t get a read on this entire situation. It makes the numbness sink deeper to accompany the vice of anxious adrenaline in my chest. He takes my hand and brings me closer to him. "Look at me, darling. There won’t be a consequence for what you tell me. What happened?”

Just breathe, Alina. There’s no going back now. I take a deep breath, my posture weakening at the weight of the burden I carry. I nervously meet his gaze and prepare myself for the unknown.

“He… He took something that was supposed to be yours. The media believed the Azteco Crown’s rumor mill and the things they spread about me wanting him and all of the lies. I’m sure you’ve seen the embarrassingly false headlines. I never wanted him. I never wanted any of this to happen.” My voice gets unsteady and Kyungsoo sighs.

“You’re safe, Princess. Please. Only tell me what you’re comfortable with me knowing.” Kyungsoo’s encouraging words lure me into safety.

*"King Daniel… He… Assaulted and abused me since I was 15. Any chance he got, he’d hurt me. He would make inappropriate comments to me when my parents and brothers weren’t around. He’d force himself on me and tell me that I made him do it. That I wanted it. I promise you that I never did. I didn’t know what I was doing, all I knew was that I didn’t want any of it.

Daniel threatened to have my family killed if I said anything against him, he threatened my Abuelita and my mother the most. Then… He said you’d know. That every time you’d look at me, you’ll know I’m unclean because of what he’d do to me. You’ll have me sent away or have me killed. That I’ll be the reason the Doh Dynasty falls apart. I don’t want to ruin your family. I don’t want to bring embarrassment to your name and reputation. Crown Prince… I am so sorry.” Anger, fear and dread hold my breath hostage. No matter how hard I try, the breath won’t enter my lungs. Kyungsoo looks away from me, my mind coming undone at the possibilities of what may come next. He brings me down to his level and pulls me into his arms. Once he secures me in his hold, sobs burst from my chest.*

“Breathe.” His whispers in my ear.

"I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry..." I shakily repeat.

“Look at me. What I want is for you take a breath. Slowly… Good. Breathe...” Kyungsoo soothes, fire raging in his eyes. “You’re not an object. You can’t be sent away. That’s not true and never was. I don’t want you to go anywhere, darling. I’ll say it again. You’re not ruined for me. You are pure. What that disgusting animal did to you was not your fault. You didn’t ask for it. I could never hold the actions of a man who should know better against you.”

I allow Kyungsoo’s words to settle in my bones and instinctively grab on to him, burying my head in his chest and allow myself to cry. His hand rubs my back slowly, his lips brush against my temple. No words were exchanged, there was no need for them. His touch spoke for him, his heavy breaths allowing me to feel emotions I buried deep inside of me. He just lets me fall apart in his arms. Waves of warmth encircle me in a soft embrace, a feeling that I’ve never known until Kyungsoo held me for the first time. He scoots back and studies my face. Pain riddles his expression, guilt entrapping me for burdening him with something that wasn’t even his problem.

“Thank you for believing me, Crown Prince.” I rasp.

“Of course I believe you. Don’t thank me for that. I want you to feel comfortable with me. You don’t need to call me by my title in private. May I call you Alina when we’re alone?” I nod slowly. We hold each other in a gaze for a moment, I’m the first to look away. He leaves a kiss on my cheek and makes sure my attention is brought back to him.

“Alina, I’m going to take care of you. No one will hurt you again. Not that bastard of a king or anyone else. I’ll have guards at every entry point and each inch of the perimeter of this castle if I have to. You’re safe with me.” Kyungsoo’s hand caresses mine in an attempt to soothe me. The silence around us is tranquil like ocean waves rolling onto the shore, the first feeling of solace that I could hold on to. The feeling of being in this man’s embrace gave me something I’d been searching for: comfort. Like a morning glory blooming in the face of the sun, something is shifting in between Kyungsoo and I. It’s blooming slowly basking in the warmth of these feelings that are encircling us.

“Thank you.” I offer a smile and Kyungsoo nods slowly.

“Is this too much?” He asks, scooting back from me. I take Kyungsoo’s hand and pull him back.

“No. We have to start somewhere, Kyungsoo. I’m happy you believe me, and I’m relieved that we’re entering a new agreement instead of the one we had before. Situations like ours don’t come with time to get to know one another fully, but we have a chance to start over now that our cards are on the table.” I explain. I stick out my hand between us and exhale. “Hi, I’m Alina. It’s nice to meet you.”

Kyungsoo smiles and takes my hand, kissing my knuckles the same way he did when we first met. “Hello, Alina. Nice to meet you. I’m Kyungsoo.”

“This is nice,” I laugh awkwardly, unsure of how to transition to a new subject. I don’t want to talk about the past anymore. “But honestly, thank you for everything. It means a lot that you’re doing all of this for me and being kind. You’re showing another side that I never knew existed.”

“This is just the beginning, Princess.”

The rest of the day went by in a blur of last-minute waltz rehearsals, dinner and some wedding planners wanted to meet with me to start finalizing details. It felt odd that we’d be discussing something that’s so far away, but I have to remember there’s 2 months left to go. Sure, we could get married sooner, but most of the time that happens with betrothals that end in love matches. What Kyungsoo and I have definitely isn’t��a love match. Overall, today has been a very odd day, and it’s going to shape up to be an even more odd night.

“May I come in?” Kyungsoo’s voice pierced through the door. Groaning, I get up from the couch and pace toward the door. I open it and see Kyungsoo in a most unnatural form: casual in a black baggy t shirt and plaid pajama pants. Kyungsoo’s eyes drift up and down at the nightgown I chose to wear for bed with a cheeky smile. “Is your favorite color blue?”

“Why?” I tilt my head.

“You wear it a lot. I like how it looks on you.” He replies with a reddish tint on his cheeks, letting himself in.

“Thank you, Your Grace… I mean Kyungsoo.” I lower my head to hide my own red cheeks. “Not that I don’t appreciate your visit, but what are you doing here?”

“I’m staying in here tonight.”

“What? Why?” I gasp. Kyungsoo walks over to the fireplace and warms his hands by it. I follow him and he reaches his hands out to me.

“I don’t want to leave you alone.” Kyungsoo shrugs as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world.

“Where is this coming from?” I ask carefully.

“Alina, we were getting nowhere before. We would just bicker and say hurtful things to each other. This isn’t going to work unless we both give an honest effort before resorting to a platonic relationship. You need to realize that I’ve grown very fond of you. You are also becoming the Crown Princess of this Kingdom. You have a value that you don’t even realize that you possess not only to me, but to our Kingdom. I want you to be 100% certain of something: what happened to you will never change how I see you. It wasn't your fault. You must know that there is a stipulation for all of the protections you need, a price to pay.”

I look up at Kyungsoo, reading his eyes. My heart pounds in my chest as I try to remember what Seoul Law says about something like this, if there is anything for such a situation. “What do I have to do?”

“We have to get married as soon as possible. You need to be Crown Princess in order to be properly taken care of and safe.” Kyungsoo sighs.

“As soon as possible? When is that?”

“October 12th.”

“But that’s next week! That is beyond sudden!” I shout.

“I know. That’s why I arranged for the wedding planners to come today, and they’re working to complete everything in time. Good thing your seamstress is arriving tomorrow just in case you need any adjustments.” Kyungsoo coolly replies.

“This is impossible.” I start pacing, and Kyungsoo catches my wrist in his hand.

“This is the meaning of mutually beneficial. Trust me. At the Ball we’ll announce we’re getting married a lot sooner than originally planned. We… We have to make it seem as though it’s for love.” Kyungsoo explains.

“You don’t have to do this.” I insist. Kyungsoo reaches out and brushes his fingers along my cheek and I don’t fight it.

“I have to. You have every right to feel safe and secure. Leave it to me. Just because we’re getting married quick doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have what you want, I have you scheduled to meet with the wedding planners after the ball.”

“I just… I thought we’d have more time to figure our… Relationship out.” I scoff. Kyungsoo grips my hand tighter and stops walking, his gaze fixed on me. He studies my face and leans closer.

“Darling, you said it yourself the day we met. You’re nothing but another nation’s princess until we’re wed. Whether you like it or not, you’re mine. I can admit that I am possessive of what’s mine, it’s a flaw that works in your favor. I’ll protect you. Even if that means marrying you a hell of a lot sooner than we wanted. We also have a lifetime to figure this relationship out.” Kyungsoo’s voice drops to a low rumble.

“So, we’re going to be in our elderly age still getting to know each other? Sounds like a fun life.” I lean back and Kyungsoo chuckles softly.

“You’re right. I’ll make a much better effort in spending quality time with you, darling. Not just so people can see us together. You look tired, come on. Let’s get you to bed.” With a kiss on my cheek, Kyungsoo turns the sheets down. I climb in bed with a dizzy head.

My wedding is next week.

I lay down and turn off the lights, cuddling into the sheets.

I’m marrying Kyungsoo next week.

He’s willingly marrying me to get me protections I don’t have as a foreign princess. I have no idea what’s going on with him but it’s making me soften my sentiments toward him. I watch him recline on the couch with his phone in his hand. The focus in his eyes tells me that it must be something serious so I turn away to give him his space.

My body is so exhausted that when I close my eyes I fall asleep a lot quicker than that I normally would.

“Let me go!” I scream, eyes shooting open from my ongoing nightmare.

“Alina!” Kyungsoo rushes to my side and I’m snapped from dream to reality. “You’re shaking, darling. Was it a nightmare?”

I nod and crave his eye contact. Once he gives me what I want, I try my best to focus on him. I’m frozen, but Kyungsoo sits behind me on the bed and secures me in his arms. “You don’t…”

“You need to sleep, darling. You’ve lacked sleep for so long.” Kyungsoo lowly comforts me. “I’ll shelter you from everything that can harm you as you sleep. Trust in me, Alina.”

Trust me. You need to learn to trust me. Trust in me, Alina.

I can’t help that my heart rate slows down when I’m in Kyungsoo’s arms. Contentment builds between us in the awkward state of being in bed together. I refuse to admit that I need him. I don’t want to acknowledge that this feels safe. It baffles me that someone who despises me wants me to trust them so badly. The numbness fades in the presence of him. No one else has been able to do that.

“Alina, are you comfortable?”

“Is it bad that I am?” I ask.

“No, it’s not. You being comfortable in my arms isn’t bad. Darling, do you want me to stay here in bed with you?” Kyungsoo asks, his tone soft and gentle. I sigh and turn in his arms. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you last night, I’ll be better at that.”

“Is it bad that I want you this close to me?” I ask again. Kyungsoo shakes his head and sits beside me, pulling the sheets over his body.

“We’ll be in the same bed this time next week, what difference does it make? Come here, Princess.” He holds his arms out and I nervously slide into them. Resting my head on his chest, draping my arm over his stomach, our legs intertwining and his embrace tighter than it was before completed the calming efforts Kyungsoo has on me. He strokes my hair and absolutely all of the anxiety in my body left me. “Rest, let me worry about your fears and anxieties. You’re not handling this alone anymore.”

“Thank you, Kyungsoo.” I hum. My eyes grow heavy. I fall asleep in Kyungsoo’s arms, a place that is slowly starting to feel like home.

11 notes · View notes

restlessmaknae · 1 year

Text

The tale of the young man whose voice was as beautiful as the moonlight, but whose voice could also kill.

➳ Characters: siren!Theo x princess!reader/you

➳ Genre: siren!au, curse!au, kingdom!au, fantasy, romance, angst

➳ Words: 4.4k

➳ Warning: mentions of blood, Theo killing people because he's a siren, major character death

➳ A/N: This story is part of my '5 words, 5 stories' series for which I wrote 5 totally different stories with 5 different band members featuring the same 5 words "I'm sorry, I love you". If you're interested in the other stories, check out this link! Otherwise, they can totally be read on their own. Dedicated to @dat-town ❤️

➳ Check out: my P1Harmony masterlist

➳ P1Harmony taglist: @dat-town, @tranquilpetrichor, @laaylaazyy, @americanokisses, @kuleo26, @hyu-won, @bamboongi, @syrxiee2, @wccycc, @littlestartonightsposts, @sunooslover, @chang-ryul

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Taeyang. Taeyang was living with his parents beside the sea, his father a fishman, his mother a cook. Taeyang often accompanied his father to catch fish, assisting whenever he could, but it was rare that he went out fishing on his own. However, once, his father got sick, so Taeyang went out in his place because the family relied heavily on the man’s work.

It was odd being on his own, and he wondered whether there would be a thunderstorm that day. Storms were unexpectedly harsh and common these past few weeks, hence fishing was more difficult than usually. On the other hand, his father couldn’t afford to go fishing further away because they were occupied by other fishermen, they had their own territory, but where they lived was untouched.

Taeyang had heard some kids talk behind his back whenever he walked home from the market, they whispered about odd instances of people going missing after being at the shore and men jumping to their death from the rocks surrounding the water. No wonder no one dared to come close, and his father could use it to his advantage. His father didn’t believe in these tales though, he said they were mere rumours, and that this place was definitely not cursed.

The boy believed him, and he wanted to believe him even though messy grey clouds were already gathering above his head, the first warning of a soon-to-arrive storm. Taeyang let out a sigh, then got started on it. He did how his father had taught him, but he struggled so much with a catch, he wondered if he should keep pulling the tackle, but then he remembered his mother’s hopeless eyes when his father had come down with a fever, and he kept pulling and pulling… Until he pulled a beautiful female body out of the water.

The tackle got stuck in her blouse, and blood oozed out from her side - where the boy had possibly managed to strike her. Taeyang could barely believe what he saw, he was merely gaping at the sight and trying to pacify the crazy beating of his heart. This couldn’t be real. Why was she in the water? Taeyang should have seen if anyone had been around because he had been there for more than an hour. She had to swim super fast to get to the shore from afar if he hadn’t managed to see her before. Or…

“You…” The woman mumbled, and despite her being pulled out from water, her clothes were actually untouched as if she had merely been walking on the shore, not swimming in the water. How could this be? His eyes might have been playing tricks on him since that was simply not possible. She should have been soaking wet. Instead, her hair was shining, surrounding her heart-shaped face like a halo. She was beautiful, too beautiful, as if she had not been from this world.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Taeyang justified, but he felt like his explanation was of no use. She was a full grown woman and he was just a mere kid.

“You stupid fisherboy, you brought this upon yourself,” the woman warned him, but before he could ask what she meant, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and sunk her teeth into his wrists.

Taeyang didn’t feel anything at first. To be precise, what he felt wasn’t a bite. He felt as if a strong current was pulling him under, as if he was drowning, as if he was trying to reach the surface to breathe, but as soon as she pulled away, his breathing became ragged, his lungs were on fire, and all he could think about was jumping into the water to cool himself down. Maybe if he just went in there, if he was surrounded by the waves, it would be alright…

“Stupid humans and their greed…” Taeyang heard the woman say even though it seemed like she was far, far away from him. He felt lightheaded, legs wobbly, and his vision becoming blurry. Colourful dots danced in his vision, and the scenery around him became like a carousel from which he couldn’t get off.

“Now you can ponder over your mistake forever. You and your family should have just left this part of the sea behind a long time ago,” she continued furiously, but as the boy’s eyes zoomed in on her, he caught sight of fangs, and now he wasn’t sure what was going on. Was he dreaming? It felt so real though…

Then, his vision slowly lost colour, and he found himself falling to the ground, his human body not being able to bear the bite of the siren.

Taeyang thought of that incident as an odd one after all, and even though he was scolded by his parents for not catching anything that night, he insisted that he had been attacked, but the bite mark from the female didn’t show on his skin. Instead, a line was inked into his skin, and he couldn’t get it off no matter how much he tried to wash it off. It was a simple line, curving at the bottom. It was a drop of water, or a teardrop, depending on how you looked at it.

He didn’t give it too much thought, but whenever the boy wanted to walk to the market as he usually did in place of his parents, he couldn’t. He collapsed on the way or his feet didn’t move further, or he went there, but came back sick to the stomach. And it happened more and more often, so his parents kept him at home. After that, Taeyang spent a lot of time making drawings of the sea or helping out his mother in the kitchen or helping his father de-bone the fish. He made himself busy despite not leaving the house.

But then one day, he started singing out of boredom, and it changed everything. He wasn’t one to usually sing, but he felt this inner need in him to do so, and his parents also complimented his beautiful voice, so he continued on. He sang and sang, and he saw this adoring glint in his parents’ eyes as if they had been totally mesmerised by his voice, and that just made little Taeyang even happier. So he continued on, but soon enough, the glint in his parents’ eyes disappeared, and he saw horror in their orbs before they fell to the ground, their bodies numb.

Little Taeyang didn’t know it at the time, but as he grew older, he realised that the rumours were true and this shore was actually cursed. People went missing and men jumped to their death because this part of the sea was full of sirens. He met the beautiful woman whom he had injured later on, and she let him know that with her bite, he had become one of them. He couldn’t be away from water for long - a day at max -, his singing killed people even if his beauty was unmatched. Not to mention that he was now immortal, so the words of the woman - you can ponder over your mistake forever - made more sense.

“So you cursed me?” He inquired, still innocent, still just a child, barely 10.

“I didn’t curse you, boy. You did this to yourself. Your family didn’t listen to the warnings of the sea,” she explained eerily, and the boy had a feeling he knew what she meant. The constant storms, the sickness of his father, the fish being poisoned in the water… “I could have killed you, you know. Instead, I granted you immortality. You should be thankful. When you reach the age of 20, you will stay young forever,” she vocalised, her tone almost mischievous, and for a moment, Taeyang believed that what she was saying was of good intentions.

But then she smirked and her fangs showed, and he ran back to the house, scared of her, scared of the sea, and most important of all, scared of himself.

Taeyang had to realise that she was right. Afterwards, his sense of time was never the same. Whether days passed or decades, he couldn’t tell. His only thirst was for the sea and for singing, and since he had this gawking inner desire to always stay close to the water, he couldn’t even think of ending the curse by going far away, by purposefully keeping himself off, by purposefully ending his life. The thought had crossed his mind, multiple times actually. The thought always hit him after singing people to death, after not being able to say no to his other desire: singing.

The truth is, despite the folktales of sirens being only females and kissing men to death, sirens could be males and females, and they didn’t kill with a kiss, they killed with their voice. Whether it was a male or a female, someone young or old, if he had the urge, he would have to sing sooner or later. He didn’t do it on purpose to kill people, but sometimes he couldn’t avoid it. When he saw the same terror in his victims’ eyes that he had seen in his own parents’, he thought of dying, but he couldn’t do so. He couldn’t get away from the water because his siren needs were greater than his human emotions.

Consequently, Taeyang knew better than to form bonds with people. Even if he managed to save a child from drowning or get something out of the water for an elderly lady, he couldn’t allow himself to get attached. If someone was immortal, getting attached would make their endless lives even more miserable. And so he didn’t.

Not until you.

He knew who you were even before you said so yourself. The truth is, he still went into the town to mingle with people just for the sake of it, he still ate food humans made just because he could do so, not because he was hungry for it, and he was still up-to-date with the important people in the seaside kingdom just because it entertained him (partly when it was about the ruckus they caused) and it helped his forever ongoing thoughts settle a bit. It also made him feel like he was one of them: one of the mortals.

“Why don’t you care who I am?”

Your question made sense. To you, Taeyang seemed like a mere boy - probably living by the seaside - in his loose cotton pants and loose shirt, unafraid of sitting by the edge of the cliff, looking over at the crystal clear water beneath his feet as if it had been the most fascinating sight ever known to mankind. You couldn’t have known just who he was or what he was, and the fact that he had lived through hundreds of years already, so he couldn’t care whether he spoke to royalty or common people.

“Because I’ve seen too much to care,” he justified, and it was true, he had seen too much. Nonetheless, you might have thought of a very different reasoning behind his words.

“Well, you are the first person to say that,” you mumbled, looking down at your intertwined hands. “You can guess why I am here, but why are you here?” You inquired with a raised eyebrow after a heartbeat of silence as you turned your gaze towards him.

Taeyang could indeed guess: you were there to get away from your responsibilities, to escape being a princess for some time before you would have to go back to the palace, go back to your supposedly perfect and supposedly loving family and fake smiles all the time.

“This is where I feel the most at home,” he admitted bitterly. No matter how much he loathed the sea, he still felt like it was where he belonged. He knew very well that it was because of his siren self, but it was true nevertheless.

“I wish I could feel the same.”

“Why don’t you try? You can jump into the water and see for yourself,” he suggested casually, and the reaction he received was truly amusing. Your eyes widened to double their size, your mouth was agape for a few seconds before you exclaimed in a high-pitched voice:

“Are you crazy? This dress cost a fortune,” you said as you pointed at your midnight blue dress that probably had more layers than the shades of the water underneath the cliff.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Taeyang mentioned nonchalantly. He knew that to an extent he was a hypocrite because he didn’t try out a lot of things because he couldn’t do so anymore, but it should have been an encouragement. Or some sort of it.

You didn’t say anything at that time, but even that flash of bravery in your pitch-black eyes and hint of hesitation in your sweet voice were indicators that one day, you might be able to try it out, to break free.

Taeyang was surprised that you kept coming back time after time. Sometimes you came during daylight, but mostly during nighttime, having escaped from the palace for the night because the young guards who were there (Keeho and Intak) both let you because you were on good terms with them. The siren found it pretty amusing that a princess could sneak out at nights because she was getting on well with the guards, but well, maybe it was some sweet compensation for you with your difficult life and all of your daunting duties.

And you did try to jump into the water, and since Taeyang was here, nothing could happen to you. Humans didn’t see sirens when they were in the water, so you couldn’t see any sirens even if they might have been around, and since you were just swimming in that lagoon he liked frequenting, there was only a small chance that any siren would come around. What you had to be most afraid of was Taeyang himself, but he avoided this particular lagoon and this part of the seaside when he felt the urge to sing (and ultimately kill with that). He had to be cautious, and he knew that he would have felt ashamed to be around you after having just killed someone, so he went swimming somewhere else.

Nevertheless, most of the time nothing happened, and you probably thought that he was just a young man from around here who liked the sea and this particular lagoon, and who always seemed to be in a combination of a loose (sometimes low-cut) shirt and loose pants. Truthfully, he couldn’t be bothered to dress in a different way even if his clothes were untouched when in the water. At least it was an advantage of being a siren.

Most of the time nothing happened, and you two could just be there, laughing about stories you told or talking about something deep as you particularly liked pondering about existential questions, and you weren’t afraid to speak your mind either.

“You know, it does feel a little bit like a home now,” you admitted once, and Taeyang did feel a sense of pride swell in his chest. A princess who didn’t feel herself at home anywhere started feeling like at home around his home?

“Oh, really?” He quirked an eyebrow, a smile playing along the curves of his lips. He leaned forward as if teasing, as if testing if you were honest or just joking, but you didn’t take it lightly. You kept looking at him, looking into his deep, dark eyes, and Taeyang felt something in him twist as you gazed at him. He was convinced that he could only feel the urge for two things: to be near the sea and to let his voice out to sing, to kill people because he recharged his energy for his siren self from these activities.

On the other hand, now, looking at your wet hair sticking to your skin, your dress tight on your body because you had just come out of the water, your eyes shining like a child’s when watching something marvellous, Taeyang had the urge to do something else, something more humane.

“Really.” You bobbed your head, your smile still not fading. He couldn’t tell whether you didn’t feel the same way or you didn’t mind the close proximity, but Taeyang assumed that you were unbothered unlike him. At least, until you didn’t lean closer as well. “But it’s because you’re here. It feels like home because you’re here.”

It only took a few seconds before the fire was ignited in his heart, and he leaned forward to close the distance between you just when you did so, thus you met in the middle. The kiss tasted of salty seawater, words that died on the tip of his tongue, burning touches of each other’s tongue, and vulnerable, momentary sparkles of hope. Ever since becoming a siren, this was the moment he felt the most humane, and the desire he felt then couldn’t be compared to the desire to sing or to swim. It was something more, it was something completely different.

And it was over before he could realise, and you leaned back, biting on your lip like a nervous little girl having stolen something. Then, you looked up at him, and he looked back at you, and when you sat closer to snuggle up to his chest, it felt like the most natural thing to do. So he let you, and you kept talking until your mouth ran dry, and one thing really stuck with him.

“And you know, you’re pretty wise for your age,” you said jokingly, and even though Taeyang knew that it wasn’t completely true, he also knew that you made him think differently of his immortal life.

“Well, it does seem like in all this eternity of a life, you bring in something you. As if life slowed down a bit when you’re here,” he confessed truthfully, and when you looked up at him, he could see just how touched you were. You thanked him with a kiss instead of words, and Taeyang felt like he couldn’t get enough, enough of you.

He knew that he was playing a dangerous game - not just because of what he was, but because of who you were. You two were like the sun and the moon, you should have never overlapped each other’s territory, if you did, it should have been for the briefest of moments, but now, Taeyang didn’t know just when the fall would come. Despite how others described love, he didn’t feel like falling with you, he felt like flying with you - weightless, hovering somewhere in between reality and dreams and looking at the world around you from afar. As if you two were just two birds crossing the sky, and all the problems of the big bad world around you were minuscule.

Since he felt like this, he had a feeling that a fall would come - not even a fall, a crash. Falls were inevitable due to strong winds and external factors, but a crash was what was most painful and unexpected. You were a princess after all and he was a siren, you were mortal and he was immortal, you should have probably married someone of your rank and he should have never fallen in love with a human, but still… It felt so right being with you, it felt so humane, and no matter how much he would like to deny it, he missed this humane side of his. The heart palpitations whenever you were too close to him to let the opportunity go, the burning sensation that you left on his skin whenever you let go of him after holding his hand for sometime, the thrilled shivers going down his spine whenever he caught sight of you walking towards the lagoon, and that deep, deep feeling in his heart that you were there, with him, for him, and you cared.

And Taeyang, oh how much he thought that he was being careful, but maybe he was blinded by all those sun-tainted kisses, all the salty water flavours of you, all the shades your eyes took on whenever you were swimming in the sea under the midnight moonlight, all the layers you could show him affection and all the colours you brought into his life. And he be damned for not telling you about what he was sooner…

Because when you were sitting on the rocks together, your head resting in the crook of his neck, fingers intertwined in his lap, watched by the eerie moonlight, Taeyang could feel his siren self reaching into him, and slowly - like a tremor - spreading through his body. He wanted to quiet it down, he wanted to numb it, but it just kept coming on stronger and stronger, the waves pulling him under. It always started slow, but would come on soon, and he knew he needed to act fast.

“I… I have to go…” He said hastily, letting go of your hand, trying to push himself off the ground when you reached after his arm, looking up at him with wide, worried eyes. His heart broke at the sight, but he had to go against what his heart wished for, what your heart wished for.

“Where are you going? What’s wrong?”

“You don’t understand. I can’t be around you. You should go,” he insisted, and damn you, why did you have such a strong grip? Why couldn’t you let him go?

“Then make me understand, Taeyang. You can’t just leave like…” You left the sentence hanging in the air as the boy yanked your hand away. He knew that the sea wasn’t far away, but his siren self was resurfacing soon, and he didn’t know if he had enough time, especially with you still in his footsteps.

“Run, please, go… I don’t want to hurt you,” he pleaded as he gave you one last glance before jumping from the rock to another, feet moving as fast as he could. He didn’t even look where he was going or if you were still there, he just concentrated on getting to the edge of the cliff, so he could jump from it. With him in the water, you wouldn’t hear him sing, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

But he faltered and fell, his feet slipping between two rocks, and he yelped - what exactly he shouldn’t have because you turned back hearing his cry and asked if he was okay. You shouldn’t have… you should have gone further, and he should have already been in the water, but there he was, face bruised from falling onto the uneven rocks, ankle hurting where it came in contact with the cold hard surface, and he felt it coming, he felt it nearing… It was too late, he was too late…

He gathered all the strength he had left though, and pushed himself off the ground, but his siren self was stronger, and with you getting closer to him again, he couldn’t keep it in. He opened his mouth and started singing. Afterwards, it was like a battle between his human and siren selves, the song a plea, a cry, a warning, but all he could see was wonder in your eyes - the same kind of wonder he had seen in his parents’ eyes before he had killed them.

He just kept on going, but his human self was strong and wanted to leave, wanted to escape, his feet moving on their own, but you were already under his spell, and soon enough, your eyes widened, awe replaced by terror, and soon, your body bent like a flower in the wind, and you feel to the rocks. His human side knew he couldn’t do anything more for you, but he still jumped towards you to be able to catch you in time.

When he did so, he laid you in his lap, and despite the previous times he held you like this, he felt no warmth, no thrill now. Your body was fragile, it seemed weightless - given up on fighting the power his voice held. His voice that called your name sweetly, teasingly, lovingly so many times… now it was turning you sick, turning you…

When the song came to an end, your lips curled upwards for the briefest moment as you whispered:

“I knew it. You have the most beautiful voice, my siren,” you half-said, half-coughed through your last breaths, and Taeyang held you tighter as if it could avoid or prolong the moment he had to let go of your body that had started to go cold. Why did he have to have such a special ability if he couldn’t save anyone, let alone the one who saved him? Why did he have to bear the weight of his loved ones falling to their death because of him? Was it really his sin to carry?

“I’m sorry…” He cried out, his voice raspy and pleading and bleeding. Nothing like the beautiful singer, he felt like his voice was the ugliest now, the rawest, the most sorrowful as the words rolled off his tongue. “I love you,” he confessed through tears, and your eyelashes flattered as if you had heard him, but then, you closed your eyes for one last time.

All the colours of his surroundings, all the light from the moonlight, all the beckoning whispers from the sea seemed to fade away, seemed to numb into darkness. There was nothing else, just the last image of your loving eyes burned into his brain, the last warmth coming from your body as you still held onto him despite the song of death reaching your ears, and despite the fact that he had all the time in the world, an eternity left of his damn immortal life, it felt like nothing, it felt useless without you in it.

The world seemed soundless for the first time.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading the fic despite its tragic ending! I can't say that I didn't feel bad for killing off a character, but I feel like such an AU called for such an ending (but I know I've also written a siren AU before where they lived happily ever after...).

Anyways, the Harmony: All In concept photos definitely did inspire me to write a siren!Theo fic (hence the header), though I have to admit this was supposed to be a Golcha Y fic at first. Nevertheless, I think the whole plot fits Theo more, so I hope you don't mind that I've changed it from a Golcha fic to a P1Harmony one.

As always, you can let me know what you thought through asks/DMs/reblogs. ❤️

If you want to read more stories of mine, let it be for P1Harmony or for other bands/artists, consider signing up for my taglist here.

Hope you have a lovely day/night! Take care! ❤️

#p1harmony scenarios #p1harmony imagines #p1harmony x reader #p1harmony x you #theo imagines #theo scenarios #theo x reader #theo x you #choi taeyang scenarios #choi taeyang imagines #choi taeyang x reader #choi taeyang x you #taeyang scenarios #taeyang imagines #taeyang x reader #taeyang x you

47 notes · View notes